John  Russell 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


WHERE 

THE    PAVEMENT 
ENDS 


A  SMALL  EDITION  OF  THIS  BOOK 
WAS  PUBLISHED  IN  1919  UNDER 
THE  TITLE  "THE  RED  MARK." 


by 
JOHN  RUSSELL 


"The  leaf  was  darkish,  and  had  prickles  on  it, 
But  in  another  country,  as  he  said, 
Bore  a  bright  golden  flow'r  .  .  .  ." 

COMUS 


NEW  YORK 
ALFRED  A.  KNOPF 

1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
JOHN  RUSSELL 

Published,  October,  1919 
Second  Printing,  September,  1911 

Third  Printing,  March,  1911 
Fourth  Printing,  November,  19 It 


ENGLISH  EDITION  PUBLISHED  MAY  1921 
LONDON,  THORNTON  BUTTERWORTH  LTD. 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


College 

Library 

?s  . 

3535 


To 
CARL  BRANDT 


1G60234 


CONTENTS 

THE  FOURTH  MAN  9 

THE  LOST  GOD  33 

THE  PASSION  VINE  59 

THE  PRICE  OF  THE  HEAD  91 

THE  SLANTED  BEAM  106 

THE  RED  MARK  121 

EAST  OF  EASTWARD  162 

JETSAM  183 

THE  ADVERSARY  206 

MEANING  —  CHASE  YOURSELF  221 

THE  WICKS  OF  MACASSAR  239 

DOUBLOON  GOLD  253 

THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER  284 

AMOK  308 


THE  FOURTH  MAN 


THE  raft  might  have  been  taken  for  a  swath  of 
cut  sedge  or  a  drifting  tangle  of  roots  as  it 
slid  out  of  the  shadowy  river  mouth  at  dawn 
and  dipped  into  the  first  ground  swell.    But  while  the 
sky  brightened  and  the  breeze  came  fresh  offshore  it 
picked  a  way  among  shoals  and  swampy  islets  with 
purpose  and  direction,  and  when  at  last  the  sun  leaped 
up  and  cleared  his  bright  eye  of  the  morning  mist  it 
had  passed  the  wide  entrance  to  the  bay  and  stood  to 
open  sea. 

It  was  a  curious  craft  for  such  a  venture,  of  a  type 
that  survives  here  and  there  in  the  obscure  corners  of 
the  world.  The  coracle  maker  would  have  scorned  it. 
The  first  navigating  pithecanthrope  built  nearly  as 
well  with  his  log  and  bush.  A  mat  of  pandanus  leaves 
served  for  its  sail  and  a  paddle  of  niaouli  wood  for  its 
helm.  But  it  had  a  single  point  of  real  seaworthiness. 
Its  twin  floats,  paired  as  a  catamaran,  were  woven  of 
reed  bundles  and  bamboo  sticks  upon  triple  rows  of 
bladders.  It  was  light  as  a  bladder  itself,  elastic,  fit 
to  ride  any  weather.  One  other  quality  this  raft  pos 
sessed  which  recommended  it  beyond  all  comfort  and 
all  safety  to  its  present  crew.  It  was  very  nearly  in 
visible.  They  had  only  to  unstep  its  mast  and  lie  flat 
in  the  cup  of  its  soggy  platform  and  they  could  not  be 
spied  half  a  mile  away. 

Four  men  occupied  the  raft.  Three  of  them  were 
white.  Their  bodies  had  been  covered  with  brambles 
and  blackened  with  dried  blood,  and  on  wrist  and 
ankle  they  bore  the  dark  and  wrinkled  stain  of  the 


10         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

gyves.  The  hair  upon  them  was  long  and  matted. 
They  wore  only  the  rags  of  blue  canvas  uniforms. 
But  they  were  whites,  members  of  the  superior  race  — 
members  of  a  highly  superior  race  according  to  those 
philosophers  who  rate  the  criminal  aberration  as  a 
form  of  genius. 

The  fourth  was  the  man  who  had  built  the  raft  and 
was  now  sailing  it.  There  was  nothing  superior  about 
him.  His  skin  was  a  layer  of  soot.  His  prognathous 
jaw  carried  out  the  angle  of  a  low  forehead.  No  line 
of  beauty  redeemed  his  lean  limbs  and  knobby  joints. 
Nature  had  set  upon  him  her  plainest  stamp  of  in 
feriority,  and  his  only  attempts  to  relieve  it  were  the 
twist  of  bark  about  his  middle  and  the  prong  of  pig 
ivory  through  the  cartilage  of  his  nose.  Altogether  a 
very  ordinary  specimen  of  one  of  the  lowest  branches 
of  the  human  family  —  the  Canaques  of  New  Cale 
donia. 

The  three  whites  sat  together  well  forward,  and  so 
they  had  sat  in  silence  for  hours.  But  at  sunrise,  as 
if  some  spell  had  been  raised  by  the  clang  of  that 
great  copper  gong  in  the  east,  they  stirred  and 
breathed  deep  of  the  salt  air  and  looked  at  one  another 
with  hope  in  their  haggard  faces,  and  then  back  to 
ward  the  land  which  was  now  no  more  than  a  gray- 
green  smudge  behind  them.  ..."  Friends,"  said  the 
eldest,  whose  temples  were  bound  with  a  scrap  of 
crimson  scarf,  "  Friends  —  the  thing  is  done." 

With  a  gesture  like  conjuring  he  produced  from  the 
breast  of  his  tattered  blouse  three  cigarettes,  fresh  and 
round,  and  offered  them. 

"  Nippers !  "  cried  the  one  at  his  right.  "  True  nip 
pers —  name  of  a  little  good  man!  And  here?  Doc 
tor,  I  always  said  you  were  a  marvel.  See  if  they  be 
not  new  from  the  box !  " 

Dr.  Dubosc  smiled.    Those  who  had  known  him  in 


11 

very  different  circumstances  about  the  boulevards,  the 
lobbies,  the  clubs,  would  have  known  him  again  and  in 
spite  of  all  disfigurement  by  that  smile.  And  here,  at 
the  bottom  of  the  earth,  it  had  set  him  still  apart  in 
the  prisons,  the  cobalt  mines,  the  chain  gangs  of  a 
community  not  much  given  to  mirth.  Many  a  crowded 
lecture  hall  at  Montpellier  had  seen  him  touch  some 
intellectual  firework  with  just  such  a  twinkle  behind 
his  bristly  gray  brows,  with  just  such  a  thin  curl  of  lip. 

"  By  way  of  celebration,"  he  explained.  "  Consider. 
There  are  seventy-five  evasions  from  Noumea  every 
six  months,  of  which  not  more  than  one  succeeds.  I 
had  the  figures  myself  from  Dr.  Pierre  at  the  infirmary. 
He  is  not  much  of  a  physician,  but  a  very  honest  fel 
low.  Could  anybody  win  on  that  percentage  without 
dissipating?  I  ask  you." 

"Therefore  you  prepared  for  this?" 

"  It  is  now  three  weeks  since  I  bribed  the  night 
guard  to  get  these  same  nippers." 

The  other  regarded  him  with  admiration.  Sentiment 
came  readily  upon  this  beardless  face,  tender  and  lan 
guid,  but  overdrawn,  with  eyes  too  large  and  soft  and 
oval  too  long.  It  was  one  of  those  faces  familiar 
enough  to  the  police  which  might  serve  as  model  for 
an  angel  were  it  not  associated  with  some  revolting 
piece  of  deviltry.  Fenayrou  himself  had  been  con 
demned  "  to  perpetuity  "  as  an  incorrigible. 

"Is  not  our  doctor  a  wonder?"  he  inquired  as  he 
handed  a  cigarette  along  to  the  third  white  man.  "  He 
thinks  of  everything.  You  should  be  ashamed  to 
grumble.  See  —  we  are  free,  after  all.  Free !  " 

The  third  was  a  gross,  pock-marked  man  with  hair 
less  lids  known  sometimes  as  Niniche,  Trois  Huit,  Le 
Tordeur,  but  chiefly  among  copains  as  Perroquet  — 
a  name  derived  perhaps  from  his  beaked  nose,  or  from 
some  perception  of  his  jailbird  character.  He  was  a 
garroter  by  profession,  accustomed  to  rely  upon  his 


12        WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

fists  only  for  the  exchange  of  amenities.  Dubosc 
might  indulge  a  fancy  and  Fenayrou  seek  to  carry  it 
as  a  pose,  but  The  Parrot  remained  a  gentleman  of 
strictly  serious  turn.  There  is  perhaps  a  tribute  to 
the  practical  spirit  of  penal  administration  in  the  fact 
that  while  Dubosc  was  the  most  dangerous  of  these 
three  and  Fenayrou  the  most  depraved,  Perroquet  was 
the  one  with  the  official  reputation,  whose  escape 
would  be  signaled  first  among  the  "  Wanted."  He 
accepted  the  cigarette  because  he  was  glad  to  get  it, 
but  he  said  nothing  until  Dubosc  passed  a  tin  box  of 
matches  and  the  first  gulp  of  picadura  filled  his 
lungs.  .  .  . 

"  Wait  till  you've  got  your  two  feet  on  a  pave, 
my  boy.  That  will  be  the  time  to  talk  of  freedom. 
What?  Suppose  there  came  a  storm." 

"  It  is  not  the  season  of  storms,"  observed  Dubosc. 

But  The  Parrot's  word  had  given  them  a  check. 
Such  spirits  as  these,  to  whom  the  land  had  been  a 
horror,  would  be  slow  to  feel  the  terror  of  the  sea. 
Back  there  they  had  left  the  festering  limbo  of  a  con 
vict  colony,  oblivion.  Out  here  they  had  reached  the 
rosy  threshold  of  the  big  round  world  again.  They 
were  men  raised  from  the  dead,  charged  with  all  the 
furious  appetites  of  lost  years,  with  the  savor  of  life 
strong  and  sweet  on  their  lips.  And  yet  they  paused 
and  looked  about  in  quickened  perception,  with  the 
clutch  at  the  throat  that  takes  the  landsman  on  big 
waters.  The  spaces  were  so  wide  and  empty.  The 
voices  in  their  ears  were  so  strange  and  murmurous. 
There  was  a  threat  in  each  wave  that  came  from  the 
depths,  a  sinister  vibration.  None  of  them  knew  the 
sea.  None  knew  its  ways,  what  tricks  it  might  play, 
what  traps  it  might  spread  —  more  deadly  than  those 
of  the  jungle. 

The  raft  was  running  now  before  a  brisk  chop  with 
alternate  spring  and  wallow,  while  the  froth  bubbled 


THE  FOURTH  MAN  13 

in  over  the  prow  and  ran  down  among  them  as  they 
sat.  "  Where  is  that  cursed  ship  that  was  to  meet  us 
here  ?  "  demanded  Fenayrou. 

"  It  will  meet  us  right  enough."  Dubosc  spoke  care 
lessly,  though  behind  the  blown  wisp  of  his  cigarette 
he  had  been  searching  the  outer  horizon  with  keen 
glance.  "  This  is  the  day,  as  agreed.  We  will  be 
picked  up  off  the  mouth  of  the  river." 

"  You  say,"  growled  Perroquet.  "  But  where  is  any 
river  now?  Or  any  mouth?  Sacred  name!  this  wind 
will  blow  us  to  China  if  we  keep  on." 

"  We  dare  not  lie  in  any  closer.  There  is  a  govern 
ment  launch  at  Torrien.  .Also  the  traders  go  armed 
hereabouts,  ready  for  chaps  like  us.  And  don't  ima 
gine  that  the  native  trackers  have  given  us  up.  They 
are  likely  to  be  following  still  in  their  proas." 

"So  far!" 

Fenayrou  laughed,  for  The  Parrot's  dread  of  their 
savage  enemies  had  a  morbid  tinge. 

"  Take  care,  Perroquet.    They  will  eat  you  yet." 

"Is  it  true?"  demanded  the  other,  appealing  to 
Dubosc.  "  I  have  heard  it  is  even  permitted  these 
devils  to  keep  all  runaways  they  can  capture  —  Name 
of  God !  —  to  fatten  on." 

"  An  idle  tale,"  smiled  Dubosc.  "  They  prefer  the 
reward.  But  one  hears  of  convicts  being  badly  mauled. 
There  was  a  forester  who  made  a  break  from  Baie  du 
Sud  and  came  back  lacking  an  arm.  Certainly  these 
people  have  not  lost  the  habit  of  cannibalism." 

"  Piecemeal,"  chuckled  Fenayrou.  "  They  will  only 
sample  you,  Perroquet.  Let  them  make  a  stew  of  your 
brains.  You  would  miss  nothing." 

But  The  Parrot  swore. 

"  Name  of  a  name  —  what  brutes !  "  he  said,  and  by 
a  gesture  recalled  the  presence  of  that  fourth  man 
who  was  of  their  party  and  yet  so  completely  sepa- 


14         WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

rated  from  them  that  they  had  almost  forgotten  him. 

The  Canaque  was  steering  the  raft.  He  sat  crouched 
at  the  stern,  his  body  glistening  like  varnished  ebony 
with  spray.  He  held  the  steering  paddle,  immobile  as 
an  image,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  course  ahead. 

There  was  no  trace  whatever  of  expression  on  his 
face,  no  hint  of  what  he  thought  or  felt  or  whether  he 
thought  or  felt  anything.  He  seemed  not  even  aware 
of  their  regard,  and  each  one  of  them  experienced 
somehow  that  twinge  of  uneasiness  with  which  the 
white  always  confronts  his  brother  of  color  —  this 
enigma  brown  or  yellow  or  black  he  is  fated  never 
wholly  to  understand  or  to  fathom.  .  .  . 

"  It  occurs  to  me,"  said  Fenayrou,  in  a  pause,  "  that 
our  friend  here  who  looks  like  a  shiny  boot  is  able  to 
steer  us  God  knows  where.  Perhaps  to  claim  the  re 
ward." 

"  Reassure  yourself,"  answered  Dubosc.  "  He  steers 
by  my  order.  Besides,  it  is  a  simple  creature  —  an 
infant,  truly,  incapable  of  any  but  the  most  primitive 
reasoning." 

"  Is  he  incapable  of  treachery?  " 

"  Of  any  that  would  deceive  us.  Also,  he  is  bound 
by  his  duty.  I  made  my  bargain  with  his  chief,  up 
the  river,  and  this  one  is  sent  to  deliver  us  on  board 
our  ship.  It  is  the  only  interest  he  has  in  us." 

"And  he  will  doit?" 

"  He  will  do  it.    Such  is  the  nature  of  the  native." 

"  I  am  glad  you  feel  so,"  returned  Fenayrou,  ad 
justing  himself  indolently  among  the  drier  reeds  and 
nursing  the  last  of  his  cigarette.  "  For  my  part  I 
wouldn't  trust  a  figurehead  like  that  for  two  sous. 
Mazette !  What  a  monkey  face !  " 

"  Brute !  "  repeated  Perroquet,  and  this  man,  sprung 
from  some  vile  river-front  slum  of  Argenteuil,  whose 
home  had  been  the  dock  pilings,  the  grog  shop,  and 


THE  FOURTH  MAN  15 

the  jail,  even  this  man  viewed  the  black  Canaque  from 
an  immeasurable  distance  with  the  look  of  hatred  and 
contempt.  .  .  . 

Under  the  heat  of  the  day  the  two  younger  convicts 
lapsed  presently  into  dozing.  But  D;ubosc  did  not 
doze.  His  tormented  soul  peered  out  behind  its  mask 
as  he  stood  to  sweep  the  sky  line  again  under  shaded 
hand.  His  theory  had  been  so  precise,  the  fact  was  so 
different.  He  had  counted  absolutely  on  meeting  the 
ship  —  some  small  schooner,  one  of  those  flitting,  half- 
piratical  traders  of  the  copra  islands  that  can  be  hired 
like  cabs  in  a  dark  street  for  any  questionable  enter 
prise.  Now  there  was  no  ship,  and  here  was  no  cross 
roads  where  one  might  sit  and  wait.  Such  a  craft  as 
the  catamaran  could  not  be  made  to  lie  to. 

The  doctor  foresaw  ugly  complications  for  which  he 
had  prepared  and  whereof  he  must  bear  the  burden. 
The  escape  had  been  his  own  conception,  directed  by 
him  from  the  start.  He  had  picked  his  companions  de 
liberately  from  the  whole  forced  labor  squad,  Perro- 
quet  for  his  great  strength,  Fenayrou  as  a  ready  echo. 
He  had  made  it  plain  since  their  first  dash  from  the 
mine,  during  their  skirmish  with  the  military  guards, 
their  subsequent  wanderings  in  the  brush  with  blood 
hounds  and  trackers  on  the  trail  —  through  every  crisis 
—  that  he  alone  should  be  the  leader. 

For  the  others,  they  had  understood  well  enough 
which  of  their  number  was  the  chief  beneficiary.  Those 
mysterious  friends  on  the  outside  that  were  reaching 
half  around  the  world  to  further  their  release  had  never 
heard  of  such  individuals  as  Fenayrou  and  The  Parrot. 
Dubosc  was  the  man  who  had  pulled  the  wires:  that 
brilliant  physician  whose  conviction  for  murder  had 
followed  so  sensationally,  so  scandalously,  upon  his 
sweep  of  academic  and  social  honors.  There  would 
be  clacking  tongues  in  many  a  Parisian  salon,  and 
white  faces  in  some,  when  news  should  come  of  his 


16         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

escape.  Ah,  yes,  for  example,  they  knew  the  highflyer 
of  the  band,  and  they  submitted  —  so  long  as  he  led 
them  to  victory.  They  submitted,  while  reserving 
a  depth  of  jealousy,  the  inevitable  remnant  of 
caste  persisting  still  in  this  democracy  of  stripes  and 
shame. 

By  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  the  doctor  had  taken 
certain  necessary  measures. 

"  Ho,"  said  Fenayrou  sleepily.  "  Behold  our  colors 
at  the  masthead.  What  is  that  for,  comrade?" 

The  sail  had  been  lowered  and  in  its  place  streamed 
the  scrap  of  crimson  scarf  that  had  served  Dubosc  as 
a  turban. 

"  To  help  them  sight  us  when  the  ship  conies." 

"What  wisdom!"  cried  Fenayrou.  "Always  he 
thinks  of  everything,  our  doctor:  everything — " 

He  stopped  with  the  phrase  on  his  lips  and  his  hand 
outstretched  toward  the  center  of  the  platform.  Here, 
in  a  damp  depression  among  the  reeds,  had  lain  the 
wicker-covered  bottle  of  green  glass  in  which  they  car 
ried  their  water.  It  was  gone. 

"Where  is  that  flask?"  he  demanded.  "The  sun 
has  grilled  me  like  a  bone." 

"You  will  have  to  grill  some  more,"  said  Dubosc 
grimly.  "  This  crew  is  put  on  rations." 

Fenayrou  stared  at  him  wide-eyed,  and  from  the 
shadow  of  a  folded  mat  The  Parrot  thrust  his  pur 
pled  face.  "What  do  you  sing  me  there?  Where  is 
that  water?" 

"  I  have  it,"  said  Dubosc. 

They  saw,  in  fact,  that  he  held  the  flask  between  his 
knees,  along  with  their  single  packet  of  food  in  its 
wrapping  of  cocoanut  husk. 

"  I  want  a  drink,"  challenged  Perroquet. 

"  Reflect  a  little.  We  must  guard  our  supplies  like 
reasonable  men.  One  does  not  know  how  long  we 
may  be  floating  here."  .  .  . 


THE  FOURTH  MAN  17 

Fell  a  silence  among  them,  heavy  and  strained,  in 
which  they  heard  only  the  squeaking  of  frail  basket- 
work  as  their  raft  labored  in  the  wash.  Slow  as  was 
their  progress,  they  were  being  pushed  steadily  out 
ward  and  onward,  and  the  last  cliffs  of  New  Caledonia 
were  no  longer  even  a  smudge  in  the  west,  but  only  a 
hazy  line.  And  still  they  had  seen  no  moving  thing 
upon  the  great  round  breast  of  the  sea  that  gleamed 
in  its  corselet  of  brass  plates  under  a  brazen  sun.  "  So 
that  is  the  way  you  talk  now  ?  "  began  The  Parrot, 
half  choking.  "  You  do  not  know  how  long?  But  you 
were  sure  enough  when  we  started." 

"  I  am  still  sure,"  returned  Dubosc.  "  The  ship  will 
come.  Only  she  cannot  stay  for  us  in  one  spot.  She 
will  be  cruising  to  and  fro  until  she  intercepts  us.  We 
must  wait." 

"  Ah,  good !  We  must  wait.  And  in  the  meantime, 
what?  Fry  here  in  the  sacred  heat  with  our  tongues 
hanging  out  while  you  deal  us  drop  by  drop  —  hein?" 

"  Perhaps." 

"  But  no ! "  The  garroter  clenched  his  hands. 
"  Blood  of  God,  there  is  no  man  big  enough  to  feed 
me  with  a  spoon !  " 

Fenayrou's  chuckle  came  pat,  as  it  had  more  than 
once,  and  Dubosc  shrugged. 

"  You  laugh ! "  cried  Perroquet,  turning  in  fury. 
"  But  how  about  this  lascar  of  a  captain  that  lets  us 
put  to  sea  unprovided?  What?  He  thinks  of  every 
thing,  does  he  ?  He  thinks  of  everything !  .  .  .  Sacred 
farceur  —  let  me  hear  you  laugh  again !  " 

Somehow  Fenayrou  was  not  so  minded. 

"  And  now  he  bids  us  be  reasonable,"  concluded  The 
Parrot.  "Tell  that  to  the  devils  in  hell.  You  and 
your  cigarettes,  too.  Bah  —  comedian !  " 

"  It  is  true,"  muttered  Fenayrou,  frowning.  "  A 
bad  piece  of  work  for  a  captain  of  runaways." 

But  the  doctor  faced  mutiny  with  his  thin  smile. 


18         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

"  All  this  alters  nothing.  Unless  we  would  die  very 
speedily,  we  must  guard  our  water." 

"By  whose  fault?" 

"  Mine,"  acknowledged  the  doctor.  "  I  admit  it. 
What  then?  We  can't  turn  back.  Here  we  are.  Here 
we  must  stay.  We  can  only  do  our  best  with  what 
we  have." 

"  I  want  a  drink,"  repeated  The  Parrot,  whose 
throat  was  afire  since  he  had  been  denied. 

"  You  can  claim  your  share,  of  course.  But  take 
warning  of  one  thing.  After  it  is  gone  do  not  think 
to  sponge  on  us  —  on  Fenayrou  and  me." 

"  He  would  be  capable  of  it,  the  pig ! "  exclaimed 
Fenayrou,  to  whom  this  thrust  had  been  directed.  "  I 
know  him.  See  here,  my  old,  the  doctor  is  right.  Fair 
for  one,  fair  for  all." 

"  I  want  a  drink." 

Dubosc  removed  the  wooden  plug  from  the  flask. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  quietly. 

With  the  delicacy  that  lent  something  of  legerde 
main  to  all  his  gestures,  he  took  out  a  small  canvas 
wallet,  the  crude  equivalent  of  the  professional  black 
bag,  from  which  he  drew  a  thimble.  Meticulously  he 
poured  a  brimming  measure,  and  Fenayrou  gave  a 
shout  at  the  grumbler's  fallen  jaw  as  he  accepted  that 
tiny  cup  between  his  big  fingers.  Dubosc  served 
Fenayrou  and  himself  with  the  same  amount  before  he 
recorked  the  bottle. 

"  In  this  manner  we  should  have  enough  to  last  us 
three  days  —  maybe  more  —  with  equal  shares  among 
the  three  of  us."  .  .  . 

Such  was  his  summing  of  the  demonstration,  and  it 
passed  without  comment,  as  a  matter  of  course  in  the 
premises,  that  he  should  count  as  he  did  —  ignoring 
that  other  who  sat  alone  at  the  stern  of  the  raft,  the 
black  Canaque,  the  fourth  man. 

Perroquet  ha'd  been  outmaneuvered,  but  he  listened 


THE  FOURTH  MAN  19 

sullenly  while  for  the  hundredth  time  Dubosc  recited 
his  easy  and  definite  plan  for  their  rescue,  as  arranged 
with  his  secret  correspondents. 

"  That  sounds  very  well,"  observed  The  Parrot,  at 
last.  "  But  what  if  these  jokers  only  mock  themselves 
of  you?  What  if  they  have  counted  it  good  riddance 
to  let  you  rot  here?  And  us?  Sacred  name,  that 
would  be  a  famous  jest!  To  let  us  wait  for  a  ship  and 
they  have  no  ship !  " 

"  Perhaps  the  doctor  knows  better  than  we  how  sure 
a  source  he  counts  upon,"  suggested  Fenayrou  slyly. 

"  That  is  so,"  said  Dubosc,  with  great  good  humor. 
"  My  faith,  it  would  not  be  well  for  them  to  fail  me. 
Figure  to  yourselves  that  there  is  a  safety  vault  in 
Paris  full  of  papers  to  be  opened  at  my  death.  Cer 
tain  friends  of  mine  could  hardly  afford  to  have  some 
little  confessions  published  that  would  be  found  there. 
.  .  .  Such  a  tale  as  this,  for  instance  — " 

And  to  amuse  them  he  told  an  indecent  anecdote  of 
high  life,  true  or  fictitious,  it  mattered  nothing,  so  he 
could  make  Fenayrou's  eyes  glitter  and  The  Parrot 
growl  in  wonder.  Therein  lay  his  means  of  ascendancy 
over  such  men,  the  knack  of  eloquence  and  vision. 
Harried,  worn,  oppressed  by  fears  that  he  could  sense 
so  much  more  sharply  than  they,  he  must  expend  him 
self  now  in  vulgar  marvels  to  distract  these  ruder 
minds.  He  succeeded  so  far  that  when  the  wind  fell 
at  sunset  they  were  almost  cheerful,  ready  to  believe 
that  the  morning  would  bring  relief.  They  dined  on 
dry  biscuit  and  another  thimbleful  of  water  apiece  and 
took  watch  by  amiable  agreement.  And  through  that 
long,  clear  night  of  stars,  whenever  the  one  of  the 
three  who  lay  awake  between  his  comrades  chanced 
to  look  aft,  he  could  see  the  vague  blot  of  another 
figure  —  the  naked  Canaque,  who  slumbered  there 
apart.  .  .  . 

It  was  an  evil  dawning.    Fenayrou,  on  the  morning 


20         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

trick,  was  aroused  by  a  foot  as  hard  as  a  hoof,  and 
started  up  at  Perroquet's  wrathful  face,  with  the  doc 
tor's  graver  glance  behind. 

"  Idler !  Good-for-nothing !  Will  you  wake  at  least 
before  I  smash  your  ribs?  Name  of  God,  here  is  a 
way  to  stand  watch !  " 

"  Keep  off !  "  cried  Fenayrou  wildly.  "  Keep  off. 
Don't  touch  me !  " 

"Eh,  and  why  not,  fool?  Do  you  know  that  the 
ship  could  have  missed  us?  A  ship  could  have  passed 
us  a  dozen  times  while  you  slept?" 

"  Bourrique ! " 

"Vache!" 

They  spat  the  insults  of  the  prison  while  Perroquet 
knotted  his  great  fist  over  the  other,  who  crouched 
away  catlike,  his  mobile  mouth  twisted  to  a  snarl. 
Dubosc  stood  aside  in  watchful  calculation  until 
against  the  angry  red  sunrise  in  which  they  floated 
there  flashed  the  naked  red  gleam  of  steel.  Then  he 
stepped  between. 

"  Enough.    Fenayrou,  put  up  that  knife." 

"  The  dog  kicked  me !  " 

"  You  were  at  fault,"  said  Dubosc  sternly.  "  Perro 
quet!" 

"Are  we  all  to  die  that  he  may  sleep?"  stormed 
The  Parrot. 

"  The  harm  is  done.  Listen  now,  both  of  you. 
Things  are  bad  enough  already.  We  may  need  all 
our  energies.  Look  about." 

They  looked  and  saw  the  far,  round  horizon  and 
the  empty  desert  of  the  sea  and  their  own  long  shad 
ows  that  slipped  slowly  before  them  over  its  smooth, 
slow  heaving,  and  nothing  else.  The  land  had  sunk 
away  from  them  in  the  night  —  some  one  of  the  chance 
currents  that  sweep  among  the  islands  had  drawn  them 
none  could  say  where  or  how  far.  The  trap  had  been 


THE  FOURTH  MAN  21 

sprung.  "  Good  God.  how  lonely  it  is ! "  breathed 
Fenayrou  in  a  hush. 

No  more  was  said.  They  dropped  their  quarrel. 
Silently  they  shared  their  rations  as  before,  made  shift 
to  eat  something  with  their  few  drops  of  water,  and 
sat  down  to  pit  themselves  one  against  another  in  the 
vital  struggle  that  each  could  feel  was  coming  —  a 
sort  of  tacit  test  of  endurance. 

A  calm  had  fallen,  as  it  does  between  trades  in  this 
flawed  belt,  an  absolute  calm.  The  air  hung  weighted. 
The  sea  showed  no  faintest  crinkle,  only  the  madden 
ing,  unresting  heave  and  fall  in  polished  undulations 
on  which  the  lances  of  the  sun  broke  and  drove  in 
under  their  eyelids  as  white,  hot  splinters;  a  savage 
sun  that  kindled  upon  them  with  the  power  of  a  burn 
ing  glass,  that  sucked  the  moisture  from  poor  human 
bits  of  jelly  and  sent  them  crawing  to  the  shelter  of 
their  mats  and  brought  them  out  again,  gasping,  to 
shrivel  anew.  The  water,  the  world  of  water,  seemed 
sleek  and  thick  as  oil.  They  came  to  loathe  it  and  the 
rotting  smell  of  it,  and  when  the  doctor  made  them 
dip  themselves  overside  they  found  little  comfort.  It 
was  warm,  sluggish,  slimed.  But  a  curious  thing  re 
sulted.  .  .  . 

While  they  clung  along  the  edge  of  the  raft  they 
all  faced  inboard,  and  there  sat  the  black  Canaque. 
He  did  not  join  them.  He  did  not  glance  at  them. 
He  sat  hunkered  on  his  heels  in  the  way  of  the  native, 
with  arms  hugging  his  knees.  He  stayed  in  his  place 
at  the  stern,  motionless  under  that  shattering  sun, 
gazing  out  into  vacancy.  Whenever  they  raised  their 
eyes  they  saw  him.  He  was  the  only  thing  to  see. 

"  Here  is  one  who  appears  to  enjoy  himself  quite 
well,"  remarked  Dubosc. 

"  I  was  thinking  so  myself,"  said  Fenayrou. 

"  The  animal !  "  rumbled  Perroquet. 

They  observed  him,  and  for  the  first  time  with  direct 


22         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

interest,  with  thought  of  him  as  a  fellow  being  —  with 
the  beginning  of  envy. 

"  He  does  not  seem  to  suffer." 

"What  is  going  on  in  his  brain?  What  does  he 
dream  of  there  ?  One  would  say  he  despises  us." 

"The  beast!" 

"  Perhaps  he  is  waiting  for  us  to  die,"  suggested 
Fenayrou  with  a  harsh  chuckle.  "  Perhaps  he  is  wait 
ing  for  the  reward.  He  would  not  starve  on  the  way 
home,  at  least.  And  he  could  deliver  us  —  piecemeal." 

They  studied  him. 

"How  does  he  do  it,  doctor?    Has  he  no  feeling?" 

"  I  have  been  wondering,"  said  Dubosc.  "  It  may  be 
that  his  fibers  are  tougher  —  his  nerves." 

"  Yet  we  have  had  water  and  he  none." 

"  But  look  at  his  skin,  fresh  and  moist." 

"  And  his  belly,  fat  as  a  football !  " 

The  Parrot  hauled  himself  aboard. 

"  Don't  tell  me  this  black  beast  knows  thirst ! "  he 
cried  with  a  strange  excitement.  "  Is  there  any  way 
he  could  steal  our  supplies?" 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  Then,  name  of  a  dog,  what  if  he  has  supplies  of 
his  own  hidden  about?  " 

The  same  monstrous  notion  struck  them  all,  and 
the  others  swarmed  to  help.  They  knocked  the  black 
aside.  They  searched  the  platform  where  he  had  sat, 
burrowing  among  the  rushes,  seeking  some  secret 
cache,  another  bottle  or  a  gourd.  They  found  nothing. 

"  We  were  mistaken,"  said  Dubosc. 

But  Perroquet  had  a  different  expression  for  dis 
appointment  He  turned  on  the  Canaque  and  caught 
him  by  the  kinky  mop  of  the  hair  and  proceeded  to 
give  him  what  is  known  as  gruel  in  the  cobalt  mines. 
This  was  a  little  specialty  of  The  Parrot's.  He  paused 
only  when  he  himself  was  breathless  and  exhausted 
and  threw  the  limp,  unresisting  body  from  him. 


THE  FOURTH  MAN  23 

"There,  lump  of  dirt!  That  will  teach  you. 
Maybe  you're  not  so  chipper  now,  my  boy  —  hein? 
Not  quite  so  satisfied  with  your  luck.  Pig !  That  will 
make  you  feel."  .  .  . 

It  was  a  ludicrous,  a  wanton,  a  witless  thing.  But 
the  others  said  nothing.  The  learned  Dubosc  made 
no  protest.  Fenayrou  had  none  of  his  usual  jests  at 
the  garroter's  stupidity.  They  looked  on  as  at  the 
satisfaction  of  a  common  grudge.  The  white  trampled 
the  black  with  or  without  cause,  and  that  was  natural. 
And  the  black  crept  away  into  his  place  with  his  hurts 
and  his  wrongs  and  made  no  sign  and  struck  no  blow. 
And  that  was  natural  too. 

The  sun  declined  into  a  blazing  furnace  whereof  the 
gates  stood  wide,  and  they  prayed  to  hasten  it  and 
cursed  because  it  hung  enchanted.  But  when  it  was 
gone  their  blistered  bodies  still  held  the  heat  like 
things  incandescent.  The  night  closed  down  over  them 
like  a  purple  bowl,  glazed  and  impermeable.  They 
would  have  divided  the  watches  again,  though  none  of 
them  thought  of  sleep,  but  Fenayrou  made  a  discovery. 

"  Idiots !  "  he  rasped.  "  Why  should  we  look  and 
look?  A  whole  navy  of  ships  cannot  help  us  now.  If 
we  are  becalmed,  why  so  are  they ! " 

The  Parrot  was  singularly  put  out. 

"  Is  this  true?  "  he  asked  Dubosc. 

"  Yes,  we  must  hope  for  a  breeze  first." 

"Then,  name  of  God,  why  didn't  you  tell  us  so? 
Why  did  you  keep  on  playing  out  the  farce?  " 

He  pondered  it  for  a  time.  "  See  here,"  he  said. 
"  You  are  wise,  eh  ?  You  are  very  wise.  You  know 
things  we  do  not  and  you  keep  them  to  yourself."  He 
leaned  forward  to  peer  into  the  doctor's  face.  "  Very 
good.  But  if  you  think  you're  going  to  use  that  cursed 
smartness  to  get  the  best  of  us  in  any  way  —  see  here, 
my  zig,  I  pull  your  gullet  out  like  the  string  of  an 
orange.  .  .  ,  Like  that.  What?" 


24         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

Fenayrou  gave  a  nervous  giggle  and  Dubosc 
shrugged,  but  it  was  perhaps  about  this  time  that  he 
began  to  regret  his  intervention  in  the  knife  play. 

For  there  was  no  breeze  and  there  was  no  ship. 

By  the  third  morning  each  had  sunk  within  himself, 
away  from  the  rest.  The  doctor  was  lost  in  a  profound 
depression,  Perroquet  in  dark  suspicion,  and  Fenayrou 
in  bodily  suffering,  which  he  supported  ill.  Only  two 
effective  ties  still  bound  their  confederacy.  One  was 
the  flask  which  Dubosc  had  slung  at  his  side  by  a  strip 
of  the  wickerwork.  Every  move  he  made  with  it,  every 
drop  he  poured,  was  followed  by  burning  eyes.  And 
he  knew  and  he  had  no  advantage  of  them  in  knowing 
that  the  will  to  live  was  working  its  relentless  formula 
aboard  that  raft.  Under  his  careful  saving  there  still 
remained  nearly  half  of  their  original  store. 

The  other  bond,  as  it  had  come  to  be  by  strange 
mutation,  was  the  presence  of  the  black  Canaque. 

There  was  no  forgetting  the  fourth  man  now,  no 
overlooking  of  him.  He  loomed  upon  their  conscious 
ness,  more  formidable,  more  mysterious,  more  exas 
perating  with  every  hour.  Their  own  powers  were 
ebbing.  The  naked  savage  had  yet  to  give  the  slight 
est  sign  of  complaint  or  weakness. 

During  the  night  he  had  stretched  himself  out  on 
the  platform  as  before,  and  after  a  time  he  had  slept. 
Through  the  hours  of  darkness  and  silence  while  each 
of  the  whites  wrestled  with  despair,  this  black  man 
had  slept  as  placidly  as  a  child,  with  easy,  regular 
breathing.  Since  then  he  had  resumed  his  place  aft. 
And  so  he  remained,  unchanged,  a  fixed  fact  and  a 
growing  wonder. 

The  brutal  rage  of  Perroquet,  in  which  he  had  vented 
his  distorted  hate  of  the  native,  had  been  followed  by 
superstitious  doubts. 


THE  FOURTH  MAN  25 

"  Doctor,"  he  said  at  last,  in  awed  huskiness,  "  is 
this  a  man  or  a  fiend?  " 

"  It  is  a  man." 

"  A  miracle,"  put  in  Fenayrou. 

But  the  doctor  lifted  a  finger  in  a  way  his  pupils 
would  have  remembered. 

"  It  is  a  man,"  he  repeated,  "  and  a  very  poor  and 
wretched  example  of  a  man.  You  will  find  no  lower 
type  anywhere.  Observe  his  cranial  angle,  the  high 
ears,  the  heavy  bones  of  his  skull.  He  is  scarcely 
above  the  ape.  There  are  educated  apes  more  intelli 
gent." 

"Ah?    Then  what?" 

"  He  has  a  secret,"  said  the  doctor. 

That  was  a  word  to  transfix  them. 

"  A  secret !  But  we  see  him  — every  move  he  makes, 
every  instant.  What  chance  for  a  secret?" 

The  doctor  rather  forgot  his  audience,  betrayed  by 
chagrin  and  bitterness. 

"  How  pitiful !  "  he  mused.  "  Here  are  we  three  — 
children  of  the  century,  products  of  civilization  —  I 
fancy  none  would  deny  that,  at  least.  And  here  is  this 
man  who  belongs  before  the  Stone  Age.  In  a  set  trial 
of  fitness,  of  wits,  of  resource,  is  he  to  win?  Pitiful !  " 

"What  kind  of  secret?"  demanded  Perroquet  fum 
ing. 

"  I  cannot  say,"  admitted  Dubosc,  with  a  baffled 
gesture.  "  Possibly  some  method  of  breathing,  some 
peculiar  posture  that  operates  to  cheat  the  sensations 
of  the  body.  Such  things  are  known  among  primitive 
peoples  —  known  and  carefully  guarded  —  like  the 
properties  of  certain  drugs,  the  uses  of  hypnotism  and 
complex  natural  laws.  Then,  again,  it  may  be  psycho 
logic  —  a  mental  attitude  persistently  held.  Who 
knows?  .  .  . 

"To  ask  him?  Useless.  He  will  not  tell.  Why 
should  he?  We  scorn  him.  We  give  him  no  share 


26         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

with  us.  We  abuse  him.  He  simply  falls  back  on  his 
own  expedients.  He  simply  remains  inscrutable  —  as 
he  has  always  been  and  will  always  be.  He  never  tells 
those  innermost  secrets.  They  are  the  means  by  which 
he  has  survived  from  the  depth  of  time,  by  which  he 
may  yet  survive  when  all  our  wisdom  is  dust." 

"  I  know  several  very  excellent  ways  of  learning 
secrets,"  said  Fenayrou  as  he  passed  his  dry  tongue 
over  his  lips.  "  Shall  I  begin?  " 

Dubosc  came  back  with  a  start  and  looked  at  him. 

"  It  would  be  useless.  He  could  stand  any  torture 
you  could  invent.  No,  that  is  not  the  way." 

"  Listen  to  mine,"  said  Perroquet,  with  sudden  vio 
lence.  "  Me,  I  am  wearied  of  the  gab.  You  say  he  is 
a  man?  Very  well.  If  he  is  a  man,  he  must  have 
blood  in  his  veins.  That  would  be,  anyway,  good  to 
drink." 

"  No,"  returned  Dubosc.  "  It  would  be  hot.  Also 
it  would  be  salt.  For  food  —  perhaps.  But  we  do  not 
need  food." 

"  Kill  the  animal,  then,  and  throw  him  over ! " 

"  We  gain  nothing." 

"Well,  sacred  name,  what  do  you  want?" 

"  To  beat  him !  "  cried  the  doctor,  curiously  agitated. 
"  To  beat  him  at  the  game  —  that's  what  I  want !  For 
our  own  sakes,  for  our  racial  pride,  we  must,  we  must. 
To  outlast  him,  to  prove  ourselves  his  masters.  By 
better  brain,  by  better  organization  and  control. 
Watch  him,  watch  him,  friends  —  that  we  may  en 
snare  him,  that  we  may  detect  and  defeat  him  in  the 
end!" 

But  the  doctor  was  miles  beyond  them. 

"Watch?"  growled  The  Parrot.  "I  believe  you, 
old  windbag.  It  is  all  one  watch.  I  sleep  no  more  and 
leave  any  man  alone  with  that  bottle." 

To  this  the  issue  finally  sharpened.  Such  craving 
among  such  men  could  not  be  stayed  much  longer  by 


THE  FOURTH  MAN  27 

driblets.  They  watched.  They  watched  the  Canaque. 
They  watched  each  other.  And  they  watched  the  fall 
ing  level  in  their  flask  —  until  the  tension  gave. 

Another  dawn  upon  the  same  dead  calm,  rising  like  a 
conflagration  through  the  puddled  air,  cloudless,  hope 
less  !  Another  day  of  blinding,  slow-drawn  agony  to 
meet.  And  Dubosc  announced  that  their  allowance 
must  be  cut  to  half  a  thimbleful. 

There  remained  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  liter  —  a 
miserable  reprieve  of  bare  life  among  the  three  of 
them,  but  one  good  swallow  for  a  yearning  throat. 

At  sight  of  the  bottle,  at  the  tinkle  of  its  limpid  con 
tent,  so  cool  and  silvery  green  inside  the  glass,  Fenay- 
rou's  nerve  snapped.  '.  .  . 

"  More !  "  he  begged,  with  pleading  hands.  "  I  die. 
More !  " 

When  the  doctor  refused  him  he  groveled  among  the 
reeds,  then  rose  suddenly  to  his  knees  and  tossed  his 
arms  abroad  with  a  hoarse  cry : 

"A  ship!    A  ship!" 

The  others  span  about.  They  saw  the  thin  unbroken 
rings  of  this  greater  and  more  terrible  prison  to  which 
they  had  exchanged :  and  that  was  all  they  saw,  though 
they  stared  and  stared.  They  turned  back  to  Fenay- 
rou  and  found  him  in  the  act  of  tilting  the  bottle.  A 
cunning  slash  of  his  knife  had  loosed  it  from  its  sling  at 
the  doctor's  side.  .  .  .  Even  now  he  was  sucking  at  the 
mouth,  spilling  the  precious  liquid  — 

With  one  sweep  Perroquet  caught  up  their  paddle 
and  flattened  him,  crushed  him. 

Springing  across  the  prostrate  man,  Dubosc 
snatched  the  flask  upright  and  put  the  width  of  the 
raft  between  himself  and  the  big  garroter  who  stood 
wide-legged,  his  bloodshot  eyes  alight,  rumbling  in  his 
chest. 

"  There  is  no  ship,"  said  The  Parrot.  "  There  will 
be  no  ship.  We  are  done.  Because  of  you  and  your 


28         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

rotten  promises  that  brought  us  here  —  doctor,  liar, 
ass!" 

Dubosc  stood  firm. 

"  Come  a  step  nearer  and  I  break  bottle  and  all  over 
your  head." 

They  stood  regarding  each  other,  and  Perroquet's 
brows  gathered  in  a  slow  effort  of  thought. 

"  Consider,"  urged  Dubosc  with  his  quaint  touch  of 
pedantry.  "Why  should  you  and  I  fight?  We  are 
rational  men.  We  can  see  this  trouble  through  and 
win  yet.  Such  weather  cannot  last  forever.  Besides, 
here  are  only  two  of  us  to  divide  the  water  now." 

"  That  is  true,"  nodded  The  Parrot.  "  That  is  true, 
isn't  it?  Fenayrou  kindly  leaves  us  his  share.  An  in 
heritance —  what?  A  famous  idea.  I'll  take  mine 
now." 

Dubosc  probed  him  keenly. 

"  My  share,  at  once,  if  you  please,"  insisted  Perro- 
quet,  with  heavy  docility.  "  Afterward,  we  shall  see. 
Afterward." 

The  doctor  smiled  his  grim  and  wan  little  smile. 

"  So  be  it." 

Without  relinquishing  the  flask  he  brought  out  his 
canvas  wallet  once  more  —  that  wallet  which  replaced 
the  professional  black  bag  —  and  rolled  out  the  thimble 
by  some  swift  sleight  of  his  flexible  fingers  while  he 
held  Perroquet's  glance  with  his  own. 

"  I  will  measure  it  for  you." 

He  poured  the  thimbleful  and  handed  it  over  quickly, 
and  when  Perroquet  had  tossed  it  off  he  filled  again 
and  again. 

"  Four  —  five,"  he  counted.     "  That  is  enough." 

But  The  Parrot's  big  grip  closed  quietly  around  his 
wrist  at  the  last  offering  and  pinioned  him  and  held 
him  helpless. 

"  No,  it  is  not  enough.  Now  I  will  take  the  rest.  Ha, 
wise  man!  Have  I  fooled  you  at  last? " 


THE  FOURTH  MAN  29 

There  was  no  chance  to  struggle,  and  Dubosc  did 
not  try,  only  stayed  smiling  up  at  him,  waiting. 

Perroquet  took  the  bottle. 

"  The  best  man  wins,"  he  remarked.  "  Eh,  my  zig? 
A  bright  notion  —  of  yours.  The  —  best  — " 

His  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  issued.  A  look  of  the 
most  intense  surprise  spread  upon  his  round  face.  He 
stood  swaying  a  moment,  and  collapsed  like  a  huge 
hinged  toy  when  the  string  is  cut. 

Dubosc  stooped  and  caught  the  bottle  again,  looking 
down  at  his  big  adversary,  who  sprawled  in  brief  con 
vulsion  and  lay  still,  a  bluish  scum  oozing  between  his 
teeth.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,  the  best  man  wins,"  repeated  the  doctor,  and 
laughed  as  he  in  turn  raised  the  flask  for  a  draft. 

"  The  best  wins !  "  echoed  a  voice  in  his  ear. 

Fenayrou,  writhing  up  and  striking  like  a  wounded 
snake,  drove  the  knife  home  between  his  shoulders. 

The  bottle  fell  and  rolled  to  the  middle  of  the  plat 
form,  and  there,  while  each  strove  vainly  to  reach  it,  it 
poured  out  its  treasure  in  a  tiny  stream  that  trickled 
away  and  was  lost. 

It  may  have  been  minutes  or  hours  later  —  for  time 
has  no  count  in  emptiness  —  when  next  a  sound  pro 
ceeded  from  that  frail  slip  of  a  raft,  hung  like  a  mote 
between  sea  and  sky.  It  was  a  phrase  of  song,  a  wan 
dering  strain  in  half  tones  and  fluted  accidentals,  not 
unmelodious.  The  black  Canaque  was  singing.  He 
sang  without  emotion  or  effort,  quite  casually  and 
softly  to  himself.  So  he  might  sing  by  his  forest  hut 
to  ease  some  hour  of  idleness.  Clasping  his  knees  and 
gazing  out  into  space,  untroubled,  unmoved,  enigmatic 
to  the  end,  he  sang  —  he  sang. 

And,  after  all,  the  ship  came. 

She  came  in  a  manner  befitting  the  sauciest  little 
tops'l  schooner  between  Nukahiva  and  the  Pelews  —  as 


30         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

her  owner  often  averred  and  none  but  the  envious  de 
nied  —  in  a  manner  worthy,  too,  that  able  Captain 
Jean  Guibert,  the  merriest  little  scamp  that  ever 
cleaned  a  pearl  bank  or  snapped  a  cargo  of  labor  from 
a  scowling  coast.  Before  the  first  whiff  out  of  the 
west  came  the  Petite  Suzanne,  curtsying  and  skipping 
along  with  a  flash  of  white  frill  by  her  forefoot,  and 
brought  up  startled  and  stood  shaking  her  skirts  and 
keeping  herself  quite  daintily  to  windward. 

"  And  'ere  they  are  sure  enough,  by  dam !  "  said  the 
polyglot  Captain  Jean  in  the  language  of  commerce 
and  profanity.  "  Zose  passengers  for  us,  hey?  They 
been  here  all  the  time,  not  ten  mile  off  —  I  bet 
you,  Marteau.  Ain't  it  'ell?  What  you  zink,  my 
gar?" 

His  second,  a  tall  and  excessively  bony  individual  of 
gloomy  outlook,  handed  back  the  glasses. 

"  More  bad  luck.  I  never  approved  of  this  job. 
And  now  —  see  ?  —  we  have  had  our  voyage  for  noth 
ing.  What  misfortune !  " 

"  Marteau,  if  that  good  Saint  Pierre  gives  you  some 
day  a  gold  'arp  still  you  would  holler  bad  luck  —  bad 
job !  "  retorted  Captain  Jean.  "  Do  I  'ire  you  to  stand 
zere  and  cry  about  ze  luck?  Get  a  boat  over,  and 
quicker  zan  zat !  " 

M.  Marteau  aroused  himself  sufficiently  to  take  com 
mand  of  the  boat's  crew  that  presently  dropped  away 
to  investigate.  .  .  . 

"  It  is  even  as  I  thought,"  he  called  up  from  the 
quarter  when  he  returned  with  his  report.  "  I  told  you 
how  it  would  be,  Captain  Jean." 

"Hey?"  cried  the  captain,  bouncing  at  the  rail. 
"  Have  you  got  zose  passengers  yet,  enfant  de  salaudf  " 

"  I  have  not,"  said  Marteau  in  the  tone  of  lugubrious 
triumph.  There  was  nothing  in  the  world  that  could 
have  pleased  him  quite  so  much  as  this  chance  to  prove 
Captain  Jean  the  loser  on  a  venture.  "  We  are  too 


THE  FOURTH  MAN  31 

late.  Bad  luck,  bad  luck  —  that  calm.  What  misfor 
tune  !  They  are  all  dead !  " 

"Will  you  mind  your  business?"  shouted  the  skip 
per. 

"  But  still,  the  gentlemen  are  dead  — " 

"  What  is  zat  to  me  ?  All  ze  better,  they  will  cost 
nozing  to  feed." 

"  But  how  — " 

"  Hogsheads,  my  gar,"  said  Captain  Jean  paternally. 
"  Zose  hogsheads  in  the  afterhold.  Fill  them  nicely 
with  brine,  and  zere  we  are !  "  And,  having  drawn  all 
possible  satisfaction  from  the  other's  amazement,  he 
sprang  the  nub  of  his  joke  with  a  grin.  "  Ze  gentle 
men's  passage  is  all  paid,  Marteau.  Before  we  left 
Sydney,  Marteau.  I  contrac'  to  bring  back  three  es 
cape'  convicts,  and  so  by  'ell  I  do  —  in  pickle !  And 
now  if  you'll  kindly  get  zose  passengers  aboard  like  I 
said  an'  bozzer  less  about  ze  goddam  luck,  I  be  much 
oblige'.  Also,  zere  is  no  green  on  my  eye,  Marteau, 
and  you  can  dam'  well  smoke  it !  " 

Marteau  recovered  himself  with  difficulty  in  time  to 
recall  another  trifling  detail.  "  There  is  a  fourth  man 
on  board  that  raft,  Captain  Jean.  He  is  a  Canaque  — 
still  alive.  What  shall  we  do  with  him?" 

"A  Canaque?"  snapped  Captain  Jean.  "A  Cana 
que!  I  had  no  word  in  my  contrac'  about  any 
Canaque.  .  .  .  Leave  him  zere.  .  .  .  He  is  only  a  dam* 
nigger.  He'll  do  well  enough  where  he  is." 

And  Captain  Jean  was  right,  perfectly  right,  for 
while  the  Petite  Suzanne  was  taking  aboard  her  grisly 
cargo  the  wind  freshened  from  the  west,  and  just  about 
the  time  she  was  slipping  away  for  Australia  the 
"  dam'  nigger  "  spread  his  own  sail  of  pandanus  leaves 
and  twirled  his  own  helm  of  niaouli  wood  and  headed 
the  catamaran  eastward,  back  toward  New  Caledonia. 

Feeling  somewhat  dry  after  his  exertion,  he  plucked 
at  random  from  the  platform  a  hollow  reed  with  a  sharp 


32         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

end  and,  stretching  himself  at  full  length  in  his  ac 
customed  place  at  the  stern,  he  thrust  the  reed  down 
into  one  of  the  bladders  underneath  and  drank  his  fill 
of  sweet  water.  .  .  . 

He  had  a  dozen  such  storage  bladders  remaining, 
built  into  the  floats  at  intervals  above  the  water  line  — 
quite  enough  to  last  him  safely  home  again. 


THE  LOST  GOD 

PROPHETS  have  cried  out  in  print,  no  man  re 
garding,  and  saints  have  been  known  to  write 
their    autobiographies,    and    even    angels    are 
credited  now  and  then  with  revealing  most  curious 
matters  in  language  quite  plain  and  ungrammatical. 
But  I  have  seen  the  diary  of  an  authentic  god  who  once 
went  to  and  fro  on  the  earth  and  in  the  waters  under 
neath. 

His  record  is  the  Book  of  Jim  Albro,  and  he  made 
it  at  Barange  Bay,  which  is  Papua,  which  is  the  end 
of  the  back  of  beyond  and  a  bit  farther  yet ;  the  great, 
dark,  and  smiling  land  that  no  white  man  has  ever 
yet  gripped  as  a  conqueror,  where  anything  can  happen 
that  you  would  care  to  believe  and  many  things  that 
you  never  would.  He  neglected  to  copyright  it  him 
self.  The  chances  of  his  returning  to  claim  it  are  ap 
parently  remote.  And  Jeckol  says  that  fiction  is 
stranger  than  truth  anyhow,  and  pays  better.  So  I 
shall  feel  quite  safe  in  making  free  of  that  remarkable 
work,  just  as  Jim  Albro  set  it  down  with  a  leaden  bullet 
on  some  trips  of  bark  and  left  it  for  those  who  came 
after  to  find.  .  .  . 

In  his  very  blackest  hour  Jim  Albro  must  have 
known  that  somebody  would  come  after  him,  some 
time.  Somebody  always  did  come  after  him,  no  matter 
how  far  and  to  what  desperate  chance  his  trail  might 
lead.  He  was  that  kind.  All  his  days  he  never  lacked 
the  friend  to  hunt  him  up  and  to  pack  him  home  when 
he  was  helpless,  to  pay  his  bills  or  to  bail  him  out  at 
need.  One  of  those  irresistible  rascals  born  to  a  soft 
place  near  the  world's  heart,  whose  worst  follies  serve 

33 


34         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

only  to  endear  them,  whose  wildest  errors  are  accepted 
as  the  serenely  drawing  blank  checks  against  destiny ! 

It  is  odd  that  he  should  have  had  to  settle  up  in  the 
end  unaided,  cut  off  from  all  help,  completely  isolated 
—  and  yet  with  the  savor  of  popular  admiration  still 
rising  about  him,  amid  the  continued  applause  of  a 
multitude.  .  .  . 

"  A  chap  like  Albro  can't  simply  drop  out  of  sight, 
like  you  or  me  might,"  said  Cap'n  Bartlet,  thoughtfully. 
"  He's  filled  too  much  space  and  pulled  through  too 
many  scrapes.  He's  had  his  way  too  often  with  men 
and  devils  —  and  women  too." 

We  were  strung  along  the  rail  on  the  after-deck  of 
the  little  Aurora  Bird,  as  she  began  to  grope  her  pass 
age  through  the  barrier  reef,  a  silent  lot.  Talk  had 
been  cheap  enough  on  the  long  stretch  up  the  Coral 
Sea,  when  every  possible  theory  of  Albro's  fate,  and  the 
fate  of  his  three  white  shipmates  and  their  native  crew, 
had  been  thrashed  to  weariness.  But  now  suspense 
held  us  all  by  the  throat,  for  we  were  come  at  last  to 
Barange,  the  falling-off  place. 

And  something  else  held  us  —  I  could  call  it  a  spell 
and  not  be  so  far  wrong.  The  lazy  airs  offshore  bore 
down  to  us  the  scent  that  is  like  nothing  else  in  the 
world,  of  rotting  jungle  and  teeming  soil ;  of  poisonous, 
lush  green,  and  rare,  sleepy  blossoms,  heavy  with  death 
and  ardent  with  a  fierce  vitality.  This  is  the  breath 
of  Papua,  stirring  warm  on  her  lips,  that  none  who  has 
known  between  loathing  and  desire  can  ever  forget. 
Many  men  have  known  it,  traders,  pearlers,  recruiters, 
gold  hunters,  and  eagerly  have  sought  to  know  more 
and  have  died  seeking.  There  she  lies,  the  last  enigma, 
guarding  her  secrets  still  behind  her  savage  coasts  and 
the  fringe  of  her  untracked  forests  —  the  black  sphinx 
of  the  seas,  lovely,  vast,  and  cruel. 

We  had  been  watching  the  widening  gap  of  the  bay 
off  our  quarter,  the  palm-tufted  threads  of  beach,  the 


THE  LOST  GOD  35 

sullen  hills  aquiver  in  the  heat  haze  and  the  nameless 
dim  mountains  beyond.  For  an  hour  or  more  the  only 
sounds  had  been  Bartlet's  gruff  orders  to  the  Kanaka 
at  the  wheel,  the  gentle  crush  of  foam  overside,  the 
musical  cry  of  the  leadsman  and  the  tap-tap  of  reef 
points  and  creak  of  tackle  as  our  sails  slatted  and  filled 
again.  Each  one  of  us  was  intent  for  some  sign  of  the 
disaster.  Each  one  of  us  had  a  question  pressing  on 
his  tongue  —  pretty  much  the  same  question,  I  judge 
—  but  nobody  cared  to  voice  it  until  the  cap'n  spoke. 
He  had  had,  we  knew,  rather  a  special  interest  in  Albro. 
..."  Throw  him  how  you  like,  he'd  land  on  his  feet," 
he  said. 

"  Aye,"  confirmed  Peters,  the  lank  trader  from  Sa- 
marai.  "  Or  if  so  be  he  couldn't  stand,  why  the  crowd 
would  fairly  fight  for  the  privilege  of  proppin'  him 
up  and  buying  him  the  last  drink  in  the  house." 

"  You  think  he's  alive?  "  piped  Harris  then. 

"  I  think  he's  alive,"  said  Bartlet,  without  turning 
his  shaggy  gray  head.  "  He  weren't  made  to  finish 
hugger-mugger  in  no  such  hell  hole.  I'm  backing  the 
luck  of  Jim  Albro,  that  always  had  his  way." 

"  Like  as  not,"  said  Peters,  and  span  the  cylinder 
of  his  big  Webley  revolver  and  chuckled  a  little ;  "  like 
as  not  we'll  find  him  sittin'  on  a  stump  all  so  lofty  with 
the  niggers  squatted  round  in  rows,  addressin'  of  the 
congregation." 

You  will  note  —  and  a  queer  thing  too  —  that  this 
happened  before  we  had  learned  the  first  sure  detail 
of  the  affair  at  Barange  Bay. 

It  was  now  the  20th  of  April.  On  the  2nd  of  No 
vember  preceding,  the  pearling  schooner  Timothy  S. 
had  cleared  from  Cooktown  on  her  lawful  occasions  for 
Joannet  Harbor  in  the  Louisiades.  She  had  never 
reached  Joannet.  A  month  later  she  had  been  spoken 
by  a  Sydney  steamer  up  among  the  Bismarck  Group, 


36         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

where  she  had  no  ostensible  business  to  be.  And  early 
in  March  some  cannibal  gossip  of  the  West  Coast, 
friendly  or  only  boastful,  had  passed  word  to  some  mis 
sionary  of  a  British  schooner  cut  off  at  Barange.  That 
was  strictly  all.  It  remained  for  certain  friends  and 
backers  at  Cooktown,  with  or  without  lawful  occasion, 
to  link  up  the  vaguely  rumored  outrage  with  the  actual 
and  private  destination  of  the  Timothy  S.,  and  to  send 
our  search  party  go-look-see. 

But  Jeckol  snorted.  .  .  .  You  could  hardly  blame 
him,  at  that.  Among  the  five  of  us  he  was  the  only 
man  who  had  never  crossed  Jim  Albro  at  one  point 
or  another  in  the  career  of  that  eccentric  luminary. 
And,  besides,  it  was  Jeckol's  business  to  snort.  You 
must  have  read  his  clever  bits  in  the  "  Bulletin  " — 
those  little  running  paragraphs  that  snap  and  fume  like 
a  pack  of  Chinese  crackers  ?  He  had  been  loafing  about 
Bananaland  on  vacation  just  before  we  started,  and 
of  course  he  got  wind  and  wished  himself  along.  Trust 
a  pressman  to  know  the  necessary  people  and  a  chance 
for  copy. 

"  I've  heard  a  deal  of  talk  of  this  Albro  since  we 
weighed  anchor,"  he  said.  "What's  all  about  him? 
He  wasn't  commanding  the  Timothy  S.f" 

"  No,"  drawled  Peters.  "  No  —  he  didn't  command. 
Mullhall  was  skipper." 

"  Did  he  launch  the  scheme  then?  Was  he  the  dis 
coverer  of  this  wonderful  virgin  shell  bed  they  were 
going  to  strip  ?  " 

"  No,"  returned  Peters.  "  No  —  you  couldn't  say 
he  had  any  regular  standin'  in  the  expedition.  .  .  .  He 
shipped  as  a  sort  of  supercargo  —  didn't  he,  Cap'n 
Bartlet?" 

"  Cabin  boy,  more  likely,"  said  Bartlet  in  his  slow 
way.  "  Or  bos'n's  mate  —  or  even  midshipmite." 

Jeckol  eyed  us  all  around,  but  nobody  smiled. 

"  You're  getting  at  me,"  he  said.     "  Never  mind. 


THE  LOST  GOD  37 

Only  I'm  going  to  write  the  yarn,  you  know.  You'd 
much  better  help  me  pick  the  right  hero.  What's  your 
famous  Albro  like  ?  " 

"  The  takingest  chap  that  ever  stood  in  shoe 
leather,"  cried  young  Harris  with  a  rush.  "  Abso 
lutely.  I  never  saw  him  only  twice,  but  I  remember 
just  how  he  looked  and  what  he  said.  The  first  time 
he  was  drunk  —  but  —  but  that  was  all  right.  He  sang 
'  Mad  Bess  of  Bedlam '  to  make  your  hair  curl.  And 
one  night  in  Brisbane  when  he  took  on  the  Castlereagh 
Slasher  for  two  rounds — " 

"  Six  foot  of  mad  Irishman,"  said  Peters,  "  and  about 
three  inches  of  dreamy  Spaniard  atop  of  that  —  to  put 
a  head  on  the  mixture,  you  might  say.  Blue-black 
wavy  beard  and  an  eye  like  a  blue  glass  marble — " 

"  With  the  sunlight  shining  through ! "  Harris  shot 
in. 

"James  O'Shaughnessy  Albro."  Peters  lingered 
upon  the  name.  "  As  to  his  luck,  Cap'n  Bartlet  may 
be  right,  but  I  wouldn't  call  it  so.  He  was  born  too 
late.  He  should  ha'  been  a  conquistador  —  d'y'  call 
'em?  —  and  gone  swaggerin'  up  and  down  in  the  old 
time  holdin'  pepper  rajahs  to  ransom  and  carvin'  out 
kingdoms.  Whereas  he  was  only  Jim  and  anything 
you  like  between  a  navvy  and  a  millionaire. 

"  Nobody  knows  what  he'd  done  back  home  — 
prob'ly  he  got  to  bulgin'  over  too  many  boundaries 
and  needed  room.  He  blew  into  the  Endeavor  River 
one  season  with  a  tradin'  schooner  of  his  own  —  curly 
maple  saloon,  satin  divans,  silver-mounted  gun  racks  — 
by  Joe,  you'd  ha'  thought  he  was  goin'  to  trade  with 
cherryubims  for  golden  harps  in  the  isles  of  paradise. 
And  so  he  very  nearly  did,  too,  what  with  the  dare 
devil  chances  he  took,  till  he  lost  craft  and  all  on  a 
race  back  from  Thursday  Island." 

"Wrecked?"  asked  Jeckol. 

"Just  gambled.     Old  man  Tyler  could  lay  his  Haw- 


38         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

finch  half  a  point  nearer  the  wind  than  a  chap  has 
a  right  to  expect  from  an  archbishop.  Jimmie  paid 
over  at  the  dock  head  and  went  weavin'  his  way  up 
Charlotte  Street  a  beggar,  turned  into  a  political  barney 
they  were  havin'  there,  and  made  them  a  roarin' 
speech  on  somethin' — temperance  prob'ly.  And,  by 
Joe,  if  they  didn't  elect  him  a  divisional  councilor  the 
next  day ! " 

"  I've  heard  of  that,"  proffered  Harris  with  a  grin. 
"  Wasn't  it  the  same  winter  he  did  a  quick  dash  to 
the  tin  mines  for  his  health?  It  seems  there  was  a 
beauteous  and  wealthy  widow.  He  couldn't  have  loved 
her  half  so  well  had  he  not  loved  her  pretty  under- 
housemaid  more.  So  he  started  for  Mount  Romeo! 
.  .  .  My  word,  he'd  turn  the  worst  scrape  into  a  ro 
mance,  that  fellow !  They  say  he  made  a  big  winning 
at  Romeo  —  just  to  console  himself." 

"  He  made  a  dozen  winnings.  And  I've  helped  him 
to  a  job  as  warehouse  clerk  at  Samarai  when  he  wore 
no  shirt  under  his  coat,  and  gunny  bags  for  trousies. 
That's  what  the  cap'n  here  means  by  his  luck,  I  fancy, 
because  you  couldn't  keep  him  down.  Capitalist, 
miner,  politician,  stevedore  —  it  was  all  one  to  Jimmie. 
Look  how  he  brought  up  the  Creswick  that  nobody  else 
would  touch  when  she  went  ashore  on  Turn-again  Is 
land,  cleared  ten  thou'  off  her  by  the  nerviest  kind 
of  work  and  dropped  it  all  on  the  next  Melbourne  Cup. 
Little  he  cared.  He  was  havin'  his  own  way  with 
life  —  as  you  say,  Cap'n  Bartlet." 

But  Jeckol  frowned  and  pursed  his  thin  lips. 

"  He  never  saw  the  game  that  was  too  big  for  him," 
said  Harris,  "  nor  held  back  his  smile  nor  his  fist." 

"  Darlinghurst  jail  is  full  of  the  same  sort,"  ob 
served  Jeckol  dryly. 

"  You  ask  what  he  was  like?  "  Cap'n  Bartlet  swung 
around  beside  the  wheel.  "  I'll  tell  you.  I'm  mar 
ried  to  a  girl  that  was  pretty  chief  with  Jim  Albro  once. 


THE  LOST  GOD  39 

There's  no  living  man  dare  stand  and  say  a  word  agen 
my  wife  —  the  finest  in  Queensland,  sir  —  but  I  knew 
all  the  talk  when  I  married  her.  And  yet  you  see  me 
here." 

"  Ah?  With  an  entirely  friendly  purpose?  "  queried 
Jeckol,  peering  at  him.  "  Or  to  make  sure  he  won't 
come  back  ?  " 

I  saw  the  color  flood  to  Bartlet's  rugged  cheek  and 
ebb  again. 

"  In  friendship,"  he  answered  simply. 

Jeckol  made  a  gesture  like  a  salute,  with  a  hint  of 
mockery  perhaps,  but  he  said  no  more.  And  we  others 
said  rather  less.  Bartlet  brought  the  schooner  smartly 
about  on  her  heel  and  laid  her  square  through  the  gap 
and  we  turned  again  to  that  sinister  bay,  opening  be 
fore  us  like  the  painted  depth  of  a  stage  set,  whereon 
we  were  now  to  discover  and  reconstruct  our  obscure 
tragedy. 

We  drew  a  quick  curtain  on  it.  Scarcely  had  we 
come  abreast  the  near  headland  when  one  of  the  brown, 
breech-clouted  sailors  leaped  up  forward  with  a  yell, 
and  each  startled  eye  swept  past  his  darting  finger  to 
the  wreck  of  the  Timothy  S.  There  could  be  no  manner 
of  doubt  —  a  green  hull  with  a  black  water  line,  bedded 
low  and  on  her  side,  hatches  awash,  just  behind  a 
shallow  jag  of  the  shore  well  away  to  leeward.  We 
needed  no  glasses  to  pick  her  name  or  to  see  that  noth 
ing  remained  of  life  or  value  about  the  battered  shell. 
She  lay  in  her  last  berth,  in  the  final  stage  of  naval 
decay,  stripped  to  the  shreds  of  rigging,  her  masts 
broken  short  and  bare  as  bleached  bones ;  and  from  her 
whitened  rail  rose  up  a  flight  of  boobies  that  cried  like 
shrill,  mournful  ghosts  and  vanished.  .  .  . 

"  Aye  —  that's  the  end  of  their  pearlin'  cruise,"  said 
Peters  grimly.  "  That's  Mullhall's  craft,  sure  enough. 
The  southwest  gales  would  drive  her  there.  She  must 


40         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

ha'  been  anchored  just  about  where  we're  passin'  now, 
and  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"On  the  shell  bank?"  sniffed  Jeckol,  leaning  to 
squint  down  into  the  sparkling  blue. 

"  Fair  under  our  keel,  I'd  say." 

At  a  signal  the  leadsman  had  flown  his  pigeon  again, 
though  we  were  well  past  all  reefs. 

"  Twenty-two  fathom !  "  Harris  echoed  the  cry. 
"That's  diving!  I  heard  it  was  a  deep-water  bed. 
D'you  suppose  they  were  at  it  when  the  niggers  jumped 
'em?" 

"  I  figger  they  were,"  said  Peters.  "  See  that 
scrubby  bit  of  island?  —  the  point's  not  a  hundred 
yards  away.  A  dozen  canoes  could  mass  up  there  and 
never  be  noticed.  By  Joe,  it's  plain  as  paint.  The 
ship  snugged  down  for  business  —  the  diver  below,  like 
as  not  —  pumps  and  tackle  goin' —  all  hands  busy  on 
board  and  the  watch  calculatin'  profits  to  three  deci 
mals  behind  the  windlass.  Aye,  there's  your  treasure 
hunter,  every  time !  Then  perhaps  a  slant  of  wind 
settin'  around  that  point  to  give  the  raid  a  runnin' 
start  —  and  — " 

"  Him  finish,"  concluded  Harris  briefly.  "  All  over 
in  ten  minutes.  They'd  hardly  know  what  hit  'em. 
A  black  cloud  —  that's  all.  A  black  cloud." 

And  Peters  was  right  —  it  was  all  too  plain.  None 
of  us  but  had  heard  tales  enough,  and  stark  history 
enough,  of  these  blood-stained  barriers  that  hedge  the 
true  unknown  continent.  To  our  waiting  minds  his 
few  phrases  threw  a  sharp  picture  of  the  careless  ship, 
the  stalking  death,  and  the  swift  horror  that  must  have 
followed.  There  lay  the  wreck  and  there  the  empty 
bay.  The  rest  we  could  fill  in  for  ourselves,  or  just 
about. 

"Then  what  are  we  doing  here?"  asked  Jeckol  at 
last. 

Peters  was  already  dealing  out  rifles  and  ammunition 


THE  LOST  GOD  41 

by  the  deck  house,  and  Bartlet,  looking  drawn  and 
old,  did  not  seem  to  hear,  but  Harris  jerked  an  answei 
over  his  shoulder  with  the  flippancy  of  emotion.  "  Oh, 
you  can't  tell  —  we  might  find  some  smoked  heads  to 
bring  away."  .  .  . 

A  few  minutes  later  the  cap'n  was  giving  his  last 
instructions,  while  we  of  the  shore  party  dropped  to 
our  places  in  the  big  whaleboat. 

"  You're  not  to  follow  us  in  whatever  happens  — 
mind  that.  If  you  sight  more'n  three  canoes  at  a  time, 
knock  out  the  shackles  and  run  for  open  sea.  I'm 
leaving  you  Obadiah  —  he's  a  goodish  shot  —  and  four 
of  the  best  boys." 

The  young  mate  nodded.  He  hated  not  coming  with 
us,  but  Bartlet  knew.  This  was  Papua,  where  wise 
men  take  no  chance  and  fools  seldom  live  long  enough 
to  take  a  second. 

We  took  none  ourselves  as  we  rowed  slowly  shore 
ward  and  sheered  off  out  of  spear  throw,  watching  the 
wall  of  jungle.  There  is  no  beach  inside  Barange,  only 
the  mangrove  roots  that  writhe  down  to  the  water's 
edge  like  tangled  pythons  through  the  oozy  bank  of 
salt  marsh.  It  was  very  still  and  very  clear  in  the 
afternoon  sunlight,  though  the  heat  pouring  out  over 
us  seemed  the  exhalation  of  a  great  steam  bath,  choked 
with  stewing  vegetation.  Now  and  then  our  crew  of 
clean-limbed  Tonga  boys  rested  on  their  oars,  with 
timid,  limpid  gaze  turned  askance.  We  heard  their 
quick  breathing  and  the  drip  from  the  oar  blades  — 
nothing  else.  At  such  times  we  floated  in  a  mirage 
where  each  leaf  and  frond  and  webbed  liana  with  its 
mirrored  image  had  an  unnatural  brilliance  and  pre 
cision,  like  a  labored  canvas  or  a  view  seen  through  a 
stereoscope. 

And  there  stole  upon  us  again  the  oppressive  solici- 


42         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

tation  of  the  land,  subtle  and  perilous.  Behind  the 
beauty  and  wonder  of  it,  beyond  those  bright  shores 
and  the  first  low  foot-hills  of  the  range  —  what?  No 
body  knows,  that  is  the  charm  and  the  lure.  Peoples, 
religions,  empires  untouched  since  the  birth  of  time 

—  fabulous  wealth,  mountains  of  gold,  cliffs  of  ruby, 
"  cataracts  of  adamant,"  any  marvel  that  fantasy  still 
dares  to  dream  in  a  prosaic  century.    They  may  be; 
no  man  has  ever  drawn  the  map  to  deny  them.    They 
must  be :  why  else  should  the  sphinx  smile?  .  .  . 

"  I  suppose  a  hundred  woolly-heads  are  spying  on 
us  now,"  whispered  Jeckol  suddenly.  "  Why  don't 
they  do  something?"  He  fiddled  nervously  with  his 
rifle  and  sniffed.  "  What  a  place !  This  air  is  deadly 

—  rotten  with  fever.     Faugh !     It's  -animal.     It's  like 

—  it's  like  a  tiger's  throat !  " 

I  blinked  at  the  little  chap  and  with  the  same  glance 
was  aware  of  Peters  standing  up  in  the  bow.  The 
trader  was  just  lighting  a  short-fused  stick  of  dyna 
mite  from  his  cigar.  Before  I  could  cry  murder  he  had 
lobbed  it  in  and  shot  the  bush. 

It  struck  with  the  smash  of  all  calamity  in  that  utter 
quiet.  The  trees  sprang  toward  us  and  the  roar  rolled 
back  from  angry  rocks.  Like  a  multi-colored  dust  of 
the  explosion  burst  a  myriad  of  screaming  birds,  lories, 
parakeets,  kingfishers,  flashing  motes  of  green  and 
blue  and  scarlet  in  the  sunshine.  But  they  dwindled 
and  passed.  The  echoes  died.  The  smoke  drifted 
away  and  the  green  wall  closed  up  without  a  scar ;  the 
silence  engulfed  us  once  more,  floating  there,  futile 
invaders  who  assaulted  its  immense  riddle  with  a 
squib.  .  .  . 

"  They  don't  seem  to  care  much,"  giggled  Jeckol. 

But  Bartlet  raised  a  finger. 

Far  away  in  the  wood  something  stirred.  It  drew 
nearer,  with  long  pauses,  pressing  on  and  at  last  charg 
ing  recklessly  through  the  undergrowth.  We  had  the 


THE  LOST  GOD  43 

spot  covered  from  half  a  dozen  rifles  as  there  broke  out 
at  the  verge  a  creature  that  leaped  and  clung  among 
the  creepers. 

"  Mahrster !  "  it  cried,  imploring.     "  Mahrster !  " 

A  man  —  though  more  like  a  naked,  starving  ape 
with  his  knobby  joints  and  the  bones  in  a  rack  under 
his  black  skin  —  and  shaken  now  by  the  ecstasy  of 
terror!  Not  at  us.  He  faced  the  guns  without  winc 
ing.  His  beady  eyes  kept  coasting  behind  him  the  way 
he  had  come  as  if  he  looked  to  see  a  dreadful  hand 
reach  from  the  thicket  and  pluck  him  back.  The  jungle, 
the  land,  was  what  he  feared  — 

"  Mahster,"  he  gasped.  "  you  take'm  me  that  fella 
boat  along  you!  One  fella  ship-boy  me  —  good  fella 
too  much ! " 

"What  name?"  challenged  Peters.  "What  fella 
ship?" 

From  the  chattered  reply  we  caught  a  startling 
word. 

"  By  Joe  —  he's  one  of  their  boys !  Give  way, 
cap'n."  .  .  . 

We  edged  in  until  Peters  could  yank  the  quaking 
bundle  aboard  and  pulled  again  to  safety  from  the 
mangrove  shadow  while  the  fugitive  stammered  his 
story  in  broken  beche  de  mer. 

It  was  true :  we  had  found  a  survivor  from  the  lost 
Timothy  S.  Kakwe,  he  called  himself,  and  he  had  come 
to  Barange  "  long  time  before  altogether."  Two 
months,  at  least,  we  judged.  In  the  attack  on  the 
schooner  he  had  escaped  by  swimming.  Himself  a 
Papuan,  of  a  different  tribe  and  region,  he  had  taken 
to  the  tree  tops  after  the  fashion  of  his  own  people, 
the  painted  monkey  folk  of  Princess  Marianne  Straits 
—  a  facility  to  which  he  owed  his  life,  it  appeared,  for 
he  had  since  lived  on  fruits  and  nuts  among  the  cocka 
toos,  undiscovered. 


44        WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

This  much  we  gathered  from  his  gabble  before 
Peters  caught  him  up. 

"  But  the  others  —  them  white  fella?  " 

"  All  finish,"  said  Kakwe  bluntly. 

"How?"  cried  Peters. 

"  No  savee,  me.  Too  much  fright  —  walk  along  salt 
water  —  get  to  hell  along  beach,  along  tree.  Me 
fright  like  hell!" 

His  account  tallied  with  our  own  theory  of  the 
massacre,  but  he  had  seen  no  bodies  brought  ashore, 
could  not  identify  the  murderers,  could  not  say  where 
the  native  village  lay  or  how  to  reach  it,  would  not 
guide  any  one  into  that  bush  on  any  consideration. 
For  the  rest  —  this  was  a  "  good  fella  place  "  to  get 
away  from  quickly. 

"  Ah,"  said  Jeckol,  sympathizing.  "  And  that's  a 
true  word." 

So  indeed  it  seemed,  and  it  is  odd  to  think  how 
close  we  were  to  giving  up  then.  Aye,  we  were  that 
close.  We  drifted  out  toward  the  anchorage  and 
looked  helplessly  around  us.  The  place  was  so  huge, 
so  baffling.  Hopeless  to  search  further  among  empty 
swamps  and  forests,  to  grope  at  large  in  this  hushed 
wilderness,  to  coerce  a  jungle.  The  cruisers  that  have 
bombarded  these  same  coasts  on  many  a  punitive  ex 
pedition  have  learned  how  hopeless  —  against  Papua, 
who  keeps  her  secrets. 

We  must  have  been  halfway  back  to  the  Aurora  Bird 
when  Bartlet,  sitting  thoughtful  in  the  stern,  made  the 
sign  that  brought  us  up  all  sharp. 

"  He's  lying,"  he  said  quietly. 

Jeckol's  nerves  jumped  in  protest. 

"Eh  — what?  The  black?  He's  only  scared  half 
to  death.  You  wouldn't  blame  him  for  wanting  to  get 
out  of  this  trap,  would  you?  I  do  myself." 

"  He  couldn't  have  lived  overhead  the  whole  nest  o* 


THE  LOST  GOD  45 

them  all  this  time  without  learning  something,"  de 
clared  Bartlet. 

"Why  should  he  lie?" 

But  Peters  had  risen  to  snatch  around  that  weazened 
face,  blank  as  a  mummy's  —  his  own  was  alight.  "  By 
Joe,  and  a  timely  reminder.  When  you've  got  to  ask 
why  a  Papuan  nigger  should  lie  you've  gone  pretty 
wide!  As  for  scare  —  what  d'y'  suppose  he  must  ha' 
seen  to  scare  him  so  ?  " 

Here  he  bent  our  monkey  man  over  a  thwart  and 
introduced  him  affectionately  to  the  Webley.  .  .  . 

"  You  fella  Kakwe,"  he  said,  "  my  survivin'  jewel  — 
I  forgot  your  breed.  I  should  ha'  begun  by  bang'm 
black  head  b'long  you.  Now  don't  stop  to  gammon. 
Whatever  you're  holdin'  back  you  show  —  savee? 
S'pose  you  no  show'm  straight,  me  finish  'long  you 
close  up  altogether !  " 

And  Kakwe  showed.  Dominated  by  superior  wick 
edness,  with  all  the  black  man's  docility  under  the  in 
stant  threat,  he  collapsed  quite  simply  at  the  touch 
of  steel,  and  he  showed  —  the  nook  where  a  tiny,  hid 
den  creek  flowed  down  among  the  mangroves,  the 
winding  course  that  led  by  the  swamp's  edge  through 
dank  and  darksome  channels  to  a  trodden  mud  bank 
and  Barange  village  itself,  tucked  away  there  like  a 
huddle  of  giant  hives  in  a  back  lot.  This  time  we 
paused  for  no  maneuvering.  Even  Jeckol  grabbed  a 
boat  hook  and  we  pushed  through,  eager  to  strike  on  a 
definite  lead  at  last  — 

Though  we  might  have  saved  our  energy,  for  the 
wild  had  its  surprise  in  waiting.  The  village  was  silent, 
deserted,  tenantless. 

We  landed  at  the  square,  to  call  it  so,  a  rude  clear 
ing  on  which  the  few  houses  faced,  those  sprawling, 
spacious  communal  dwellings  —  palaces  among  huts  — 
that  sometimes  amaze  the  explorer  along  the  West 


46         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

Coast.  None  opposed  us.  Nothing  moved,  not  so 
much  as  a  curl  of  smoke.  An  insect  hummed  in  the 
sun  like  a  bullet,  and  I  take  no  shame  to  say  I  ducked. 
But  that  was  all.  And  when  the  groveling  Kakwe  led 
us  to  a  wide  platform  that  ran  breast  high  across  the 
front  of  the  largest  house  we  stood  with  rifles  propped 
and  quickened  pulses,  staring  stupidly  at  the  thing  we 
had  come  this  far  to  find.  .  .  . 

Only  a  box,  lying  on  the  middle  of  the  platform, 
under  the  shadow  of  the  lofty  thatch  —  a  small,  brass- 
bound  chest  such  as  sailormen  love  and  ships  carry 
everywhere!  "Loot!"  snorted  Jeckol.  "Well—?" 

But  Cap'n  Bartlet  had  laid  hold  of  another  trove, 
a  coil  of  ringed  rubber  tubing,  neatly  disposed  about 
the  chest.  "  What's  there  ?" 

"  A  diver's  air  pipe,"  stated  the  cap'n. 

"What  about  it?" 

"  It's  been  cut  —  top  and  bottom." 

We  crowded  for  a  look,  and  I  saw  his  tanned  fist 
tremble  ever  so  slightly. 

"  A  diver's  pipe,"  he  repeated.  "  A  diver,  d'you 
see  ?  They  had  a  diver,  and  —  according  to  your  no 
tions,  Peters  — "  He  drew  a  slow  breath.  "  What  — 
what  if  that  there  diver  did  happen  to  be  overboard  at 
the  minute  the  rush  came?" 

And  then  came  the  voice  of  Peters,  cool  and  drawl 
ing  :  "  Some  one's  left  a  message  on  the  box." 

As  we  span  around  he  turned  it  over  atilt,  so  that 
all  might  see  the  bold  letters,  scarred  in  lead,  of  that 
laconic  legend  —  all  but  Bartlet,  who  fumbled  for  his 
spectacles.  "  Writ  with  a  Snider  bullet,  I  take  it," 
continued  the  trader.  "  One  of  them  soft-nosed  kind 
as  supplied  to  heathen  parts  for  a  blessin'  of  civiliza 
tion." 

"  Read  it,  can't  you  ?  "  begged  the  cap'n. 


THE  LOST  GOD  47 

And  this  was  the  notice  Jeckol  read: 

+ 

The  Crew  of  the  Schooner  Timothy  S.  of  Cooktown 
that   tried   a   cast   with   fortune  and   turned 

a  deuce.    Barange  Bay,  Jan.  22,  19  — 

J.  MULLHALL,  master  BAMBA  KOHO 

B.  SMYTHE,  mate  KAKWE,  JACK- JACK 

HENRY  NEW  MENOMI,  FRANK 

Hie  finis  fandi 

+ 

Cap'n  Bartlet  removed  his  hat  and  wiped  away  a 
steam  of  sweat  with  deliberate  care  and  a  red-barred 
kerchief.  "  Sounds  natural,"  he  observed,  clearing  his 
throat.  "  Though  I  never  did  make  much  of  that 
'  hie '  language." 

"  It  means  '  here  ended  the  talk,'  or  something  of 
the  kind,"  explained  Jeckol.  "But  still,"  he  added, 
quite  seriously,  "  the  list  isn't  complete,  you  know. 
Where's  your  friend  Albro?" 

Peters  rolled  the  white  of  an  eye  on  him.  "  Is  it 
your  fancy,"  he  inquired,  "  that  the  niggers  run  much 
to  writin'  epitaphs?  Or  books — ?" 

He  held  up  to  our  gaze  the  object  he  had  found  on 
lifting  the  lid  of  the  box  —  a  packet  of  thin  bark  strips 
covered  with  coarse  markings  and  bound  with  a  twist 
of  fiber  which  next  he  unknotted,  to  run  the  leaves 
over  in  his  hand.  "  I  knew  he  was  alive,"  said  Cap'n 
Bartlett  simply.  .  .  . 

And  that  was  the  way  we  won  to  the  story  of  James 
O'Shaughnessy  Albro.  Even  now  I  can  recall  each 
tone  and  gesture  of  its  telling,  each  detail  of  the  group 
we  made  there  in  empty  Barange  village;  the  trader's 
drawl  and  check  as  he  read  a  line  or  turned  to  Kakwe 
with  a  question  or  flung  in  some  vivid  comment  of  his 
own;  the  strained  attention  on  Bartlet's  earnest  face; 
the  incredulous  sniff  and  squint  of  little  Jeckol,  still 
unsubdued,  fidgeting  about ;  the  statued  bronze  figures 


48         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

of  our  Tonga  boys  as  they  stood  leaning  patiently  on 
their  rifles,  awaiting  the  master's  next  whim;  the 
massed  ring  of  the  jungle;  the  odd,  high-peaked  houses 
with  their  cavernous  fronts  like  gaping  and  grinning 
listeners;  the  lances  of  sunlight  that  began  to  splinter 
and  fall  out  among  lengthening  shadows  across  the 
open ;  and  through  all  over  all  the  heat  and  the  smell 
and  the  brooding,  ominous,  inscrutable  mystery  of 
Papua ! 

Seeking  wealth  I  found  glory.  I  went  below  as  an  amateur 
diver  and  I  came  up  a  professional  god.  But  I  wish  I  could  find 
which  son  of  a  nighthawk  it  was  that  cut  my  pipe.  I'd  excom 
municate  him  on  the  altar. 

This  is  a  page  from  the  Book  of  Jim  Albro,  and  it 
shows  him  as  he  lived.  Later  entries  are  not  so  clear, 
not  by  any  means  so  sprightly,  and  some  are  pitiful 
enough  in  all  truth.  It  must  have  been  set  down  in 
the  early  hours  of  his  reign,  while  he  was  still  in  the 
flush  of  his  stupendous  adventure,  before  he  had  begun 
to  understand  what  lay  ahead.  But  here  was  the  man 
"  with  an  eye  like  a  blue  glass  marble,"  that  "  never 
held  his  fist  or  his  smile."  No  other  could  have  written 
it  after  the  events  he  had  survived. 

Just  as  Peters  inferred  to  have  been  the  case,  the 
attack  on  the  Timothy  S.  caught  the  whole  crew  of 
pearl  hunters  unready.  They  had  seen  no  natives  at 
Barange,  they  kept  no  lookout,  and  when  Albro 
stepped  off  the  ladder  that  morning  of  January  22  he 
left  his  shipmates  contentedly  employed  on  deck.  He 
never  saw  any  of  them  again,  or  —  what  might  have 
been  a  different  matter  —  any  part  of  them.  He  went 
down  to  the  shell  bed,  and  while  he  was  there  the  black 
raiders  made  their  sweep  of  the  schooner. 

It  is  likely  the  savages  took  the  diving  lines  for  an 
extra  mooring  —  it  is  certain  they  knew  nothing  what 
ever  about  the  apparatus  —  and  Albro's  first  warning 


THE  LOST  GOD  49 

was  the  cutting  of  that  air  pipe,  when  he  found  his 
pressure  gone  and  water  trickling  through  the  inlet 
valve.  Fortunately,  he  was  just  preparing  to  ascend 
and  had  tightened  his  outlet  to  inflate  the  suit.  For 
tunately,  too,  his  helmet  was  furnished  with  an  ad 
justable  inlet  and  he  was  able  hastily  to  close  both 
valves. 

He  tugged  at  his  life  line,  but  it  drew  loose  in  his 
hand.  He  turned  over  on  his  side  to  look  upward, 
but  he  could  see  nothing  —  only  the  vague  blue  twilight 
through  which  the  slack  coils  of  his  severed  air  pipe 
came  sagging.  Then  he  knew  that  he  had  been  cut  off, 
and  the  hideous  fear  that  lies  in  wait  for  every  diver, 
amid  the  perils  and  loneliness  of  the  sea  bottom  seized 
upon  him.  He  might  have  popped  to  the  surface  by 
throwing  off  his  forty-pound  weights,  but  he  was  aware 
that  no  chance  accident  could  have  served  him  so,  and 
his  impulse  was  to  get  away,  from  schooner  and  all,  to 
shore.  Under  water  he  had  some  few  minutes  to  live, 
perhaps  four  or  five,  as  long  as  the  inclosed  air  should 
last  him.  Frantically  he  began  to  struggle  toward  the 
beach,  yielding  to  a  moment's  panic  that  was  to  cost 
him  dear.  .  .  .  While  trying  blindly  to  slash  free  the 
useless  pipe  he  lost  his  diver's  knife. 

The  rotten  coral  burst  and  sank  under1  footing. 
Clogging  weeds  enwreathed  and  held  him  back  with 
evil  embrace.  A  tridacna  spread  its  jaws  before  his 
steps  so  that  he  nearly  plunged  into  the  deadly  spring- 
trap  of  the  deep.  But  he  kept  on  up  the  slope;  his 
keen  spirit  rallied  and  bore  him  through,  and  he  came 
surging  from  the  waves  at  last  on  a  point  of  rocks  out 
side  the  bay  where  he  could  cling  and  open  the 
emergency  cock  in  the  helmet.  The  suit  deflated  and 
he  breathed  new  life.  But  here  he  suffered  his  second 
immediate  mishap,  for  as  he  scrambled  to  his  feet  a 
dizziness  took  him  and  he  slipped  and  pitched  forward 


50         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

heavily,  and  with  a  great  clang  of  armor  the  god  fell 
fainting  at  the  very  threshold  of  his  world. 

Broke  left  arm  getting  ashore.  Walking  the  beach  when  I  met 
the  niggers.  They  dropped  on  their  faces,  and  I  saw  I  was 
elected. 

These  are  the  words  with  which  Jim  Albro  chooses 
to  make  his  note  of  a  scene  that  can  scarcely  have  had 
its  parallel  in  human  experience.  With  two  dozen 
words,  no  more.  You  figure  him  there,  I  hope,  that 
muffled  colossus  with  his  huge  cooper  helm  flashing  red 
and  his  monstrous  cyclopean  eye  agleam,  striding  along 
the  strip  of  white  beach  against  the  hostile  green  hills 
of  Papua.  You  see  him  break,  an  incredible  appa 
rition  of  power  and  majesty,  upon  the  view  of  the 
dusky  cannibal  folk  and  stand  towering  over  their 
stricken  ranks,  triumphant  —  a  glimpse  as  through  the 
flick  of  a  shutter  that  passes  and  leaves  the  beholder 
dazzled  and  unsatisfied !  But  the  whole  record  is  only 
a  series  of  such  glimpses,  some  focused  with  startling 
lucidity,  some  clouded  and  confused,  and  all  too  brief. 

One  other  bit  remains  to  fix  the  picture  —  an  in 
imitable  splash  of  color,  flung  at  the  end  of  a  per 
plexing  page.  .  .  . 

I  picked  out  the  chief  devil-devil  doctor,  and  raised  him  to 
honor.  Old  Gum-eye.  Friend  of  mine. 

Mark  the  spirit  of  the  man.  Whole  chapters  could 
supply  no  clearer  tribute  to  his  resilience  and  entire 
adequacy.  Unerringly  he  took  the  right  course  to  en 
force  the  role  thus  amazingly  thrust  upon  him  and  to 
establish  his  godhead.  Already  he  had  caught  up  the 
situation,  had  put  its  shock  behind  him.  The  inscrip 
tion  on  the  box  remains  his  only  reference  to  the  loss 
of  the  schooner  and  her  crew.  And  while  this  might 
seem  to  argue  a  certain  lack  of  sensibility,  I  cannot 


THE  LOST  GOD  51 

feel  it  was  so  with  Albro.  His  was  a  nature  essentially 
episodic,  prompt  to  the  play  of  circumstance.  The 
thing  was  done  and  past  crying  over;  the  blacks  had 
acted  by  their  lights,  and  he  had  very  swiftly  to  act 
by  his.  They  had  given  him  his  cue.  How  well  he 
filled  the  part  we  can  guess.  By  evening  he  had  been 
installed  in  some  kind  of  temple  or  devil  house  as  an 
accredited  deity  to  the  Barange  tribes.  .  .  . 

Here  ends  the  first  part  of  the  Book,  so  far  as  its 
unnumbered  and  fugitive  entries  can  be  arranged  — 
the  first  part  and  the  only  part  quite  comprehensible, 
before  the  haze  of  distress  and  anxiety  has  dimmed  our 
image  of  that  strange  god,  whose  mortality  was  all  too 
real.  He  began  its  composition  that  same  night,  pick 
ing  up  the  Snider  cartridge  and  the  bark  strips  while 
still  he  had  some  measure  of  liberty.  Perhaps  he  fore 
saw  that  he  would  want  to  leave  the  record.  Perhaps 
he  merely  sought  distraction,  and  he  had  need  of  it. 

Squatting  above  his  own  altar,  he  prepared  his  own 
epistle.  Around  his  sanctuary  slept  a  guard  of  devil 
doctors,  priests,  sorcerers  —  he  uses  all  three  terms. 
No  sleep  for  Albro.  But  while  he  wrestled  there  alone 
through  long  hours  he  found  the  pluck  to  jot  those 
early  notes  by  the  flare  of  a  guttering  torch,  beguiling 
the  pain  of  his  broken  arm  and  the  new  terror  that 
was  now  rapidly  closing  upon  him. 

Like  a  glint  of  lightning  from  a  cloud  comes  the 
following  spurted  item,  written  the  next  day : 

Forty  hours  of  this.  Am  growing  weaker.  My  arm  —  [word 
scratched  out}.  Had  to  give  up  trying  to  start  the  glass  in  my 
helmet.  Can't  budge  it 

Soon  afterward  occurs  another  passage  in  the  same 
startling  altered  key: 

Tried  to  get  away  this  [morning],  but  the  Priests  too  suspicious. 


52         WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

/  wanted  to  try  smashing  the  glass  on  a  rock.  Likely  would  have 
burst  my  ear  drums  anyway  — 

And  further: 

//  /  could  get  hold  of  a  knife  for  three  minutes.  Bamboo  stick 
[part  illegible  here}  —  can't  tear  vulcan  canvas.  No  use.  .  .  . 

When  Peters  read  those  lines  aloud  and  looked  up  he 
confronted  a  sickly  ring  of  auditors. 

"  Good  God !  "  breathed  Bartlet.  "  He  couldn't  get 
out!" 

The  knowledge  of  Albro's  actual  plight  crashed  upon 
us  all  in  just  that  phrase,  and  I  leave  you  to  gauge  its 
impact.  We  had  had  no  hint  of  it.  Here  was  the 
diary  before  us.  We  were  only  waiting  to  learn  the 
present  address  of  the  diarist.  Indeed  our  whole  atti 
tude  toward  the  singular  discovery  we  were  making 
had  been  quite  cheerful,  even  exultant,  like  that  of  chil 
dren  who  follow  the  tribulations  of  some  favorite  hero, 
secure  of  the  happy  solution. 

"Couldn't  get  out?"  squeaked  Jeckol.  "How  do 
you  mean  —  he  couldn't?" 

"  He  was  locked  up  in  that  blasted  diving  dress ! " 

"Locked  up?"  ... 

"  Sewed  up  —  sacked  up,"  said  Peters  heavily. 
"Did  you  ever  see  the  damn'  stuff?  He  calls  it  can 
vas,  which  it  ain't,  but  tanned  twill  —  two-ply  —  with 
rubber  between.  He  can't  tear  his  way  out  with  a 
stick,  he  says.  And  small  wonder.  Talk  about  strait- 
jackets  !  " 

"But  —  but  why  doesn't  he  take  off  the  helmet?" 

Peters  stared  unseeing  at  the  packet  in  his  hand,  and 
his  face  was  saturnine. 

"  By  Joe,  what  a  mess !  "  he  murmured.  "  What  a 
beau-ti-ful  mess!  Look  here — d'y'  know  a  diver's 
outfit?  First  he  wears  a  solid  breastplate  —  see? — 
that  sets  about  his  shoulders.  Then  the  helmet  fits  on 


THE  LOST  GOD  53 

that  with  segmental  neck  rings  and  screws  hard  down 
with  a  quarter  turn  to  a  catch.  Aye,  there's  a  catch  to 
snap  it  home.  .  .  .  And  where  is  that  catch?  Why  at 
the  back!  No  diver  was  ever  intended  to  take  off  his 
own  helmet!  " 

We  could  only  blink  at  him  dumbly. 

"  Albro  couldn't  reach  it.  Of  course  if  he  should 
manage  to  rip  away  the  cloth  from  the  eyelets  he'd 
be  all  right  —  he'd  simply  shift  the  whole  upper  works. 
But  them  eyelets,  now,  they  lock  down  all  around 
through  a  vulcanized  collar.  He  couldn't  reach  more'n 
two  of  them  either." 

"  There's  the  glass  — " 

Peters  offered  the  diary. 

"What  does  he  say  himself?  There's  only  one  re 
movable  glass  to  a  helmet  and  that's  in  front  —  an 
inch  thick  and  screws  tight  in  a  gun-metal  socket.  It's 
guarded  with  a  gridiron  of  bars  —  same  as  the  two 
side  glasses.  He  wants  to  break  it,  but  he  can't.  He 
wants  to  unscrew  it,  but  he  can't.  He  wants  to  cut 
himself  loose,  but  he  has  no  knife.  Do  you  see  him  — 
by  Joe!  —  do  you  see  him  twistin'  and  writhin'  and 
fightin'  for  his  life  in  there  —  -with  one  good  arm?" 

"  Why  — "  cried  Jeckol,  in  sudden  appalled  percep 
tion.  "  He  couldn't  even  eat.  He's  starving  inside 
that  suit !  " 

"Starving?"  echoed  Bartlet,  from  colorless  lips. 
"  God  —  if  that  was  all !  He's  dying  of  thirst  by 
inches ! "  .  .  . 

I  do  not  know  how  it  struck  Jeckol,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  as  if  a  blackness  came  in  upon  the  sun. 

"  Go  on,"  urged  Bartlet.     "  Go  on !  " 

But  it  was  not  so  easy  to  go  on.  Peters  found  whole 
pages  of  the  Book  impossible  to  decipher.  At  places  it 
lapsed  to  a  mere  jumble  of  sprawling  characters. 
Again  the  soft  lead  was  hopelessly  blurred  over,  where 
the  pages  had  been  often  thumbed,  or  perhaps  crumbled 


54         WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

and  thrown  aside.     He  shuffled  them  hastily  and  we 
hung  upon  his  search. 

.  .  .  uneasy  god.  They  got  me  tied  up  now  to  keep  me  safe 
[words  missing]  joke,  to  pass  out  here  like  a  rat  under  a  bell  jar. 
Not  me.  I  don't  mean  to.  .  .  . 

Curious.  When  Peters  resumed  the  thread,  when 
he  read  that  eloquent  line,  those  of  us  who  had  known 
Jim  Albro  nodded  solemnly,  one  to  another,  as  if  shar 
ing  a  profound  and  secret  thrill.  For  this  was  the 
man's  real  triumph  —  and  we  felt  it  then,  regardless  of 
the  outcome  —  that  alone,  beyond  any  conceivable  aid 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  speechless,  helpless,  at  the 
end  of  all  those  amiable  arts  which  had  given  him  his 
way  so  often  with  men  and  devils,  and  women,  too,  Jim 
Albro  was  still  the  Jim  Albro  "  that  you  couldn't  keep 
down." 

His  body  was  consuming  and  shriveling  with  its  own 
heat.  He  had  to  scheme  for  each  scant  breath  he  drew, 
spreading  the  dress  and  collapsing  it  at  short  intervals 
to  renew  the  foul  air.  He  had  to  view  the  tempting 
tribute  laid  out  before  the  altar :  juicy  mangoes  and 
figs  and  sugar  cane,  wild  berries  and  young  drinking 
coconuts  freshly  opened,  with  the  new,  cool  milk  froth 
ing  up  at  the  brim.  He  had  to  receive  the  homage  of  a 
people,  and  to  count  by  the  wheeling  sun  how  many 
hours  of  torment  were  left  him.  Worse  than  all,  he 
had  to  withstand  the  pitiless  irony  of  it,  the  derisive 
grin  of  fate  that  drives  men  mad.  He  did  these  things, 
and  he  would  not  yield.  He  did  not  mean  to.  And 
lest  you  should  think  the  phrase  a  mere  flourish  —  ob 
serve  the  testimony  of  the  Book.  .  .  . 

The  tribes  flocked  in  that  second  day  to  do  him 
honor.  There  was  a  great  gathering  in  the  square. 
Some  vivid  pantomime  was  displayed  before  the  high 


THE  LOST  GOD  55 

seat.  Some  unusual  rites  were  enacted  before  the 
temple,  when  the  bamboo  pipes  and  drums  were  going 
and  the  doctors  wore  their  vermilion  mop  wigs  and 
masks  of  ceremony  and  chains  of  naked  dancers  were 
stamping  and  circling  to  the  chant.  Jim  Albro  watched 
and  noted  it  all  behind  his  solid  inch  of  plate  glass; 
not  passively,  not  indifferently,  but  with  close  atten 
tion  and  the  very  liveliest  interest.  Aye,  this  god  took 
an  interest  in  the  welfare  of  his  people ! 

Heaven  knows  what  he  saw  in  the  Papuans  of  Bar- 
ange.  By  all  accounts  they  are  a  plum-black  race  of 
rather  superior  ferocity  —  six  feet  is  their  medium 
stature  and  their  favorite  dish  a  human  ear,  nicely 
broiled.  So  the  old  traders  report,  and  never  an  ex 
plorer  has  improved  the  description.  It  required  some 
one  who  could  sit  down  among  them  without  losing  his 
head  —  quite  literally  —  to  learn  more.  Albro  filled 
the  bill.  He  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit.  And  while 
he  sat  he  busied  himself  with  the  thoughts  that  have 
made  the  strangest,  and  blindest,  reading  in  the  diary. 

A  prime  lot  of  raw  material.  Why  [do?}  people  always  lie 
about  niggers?  Unspoiled  [part  illegible}  the  makings.  Their 
orators  told  me  in  dumb  show  [words  missing]  behind  the  hills 
[lines  missing],  .  .  .  Wonderful! 

Wonderful,  he  says.  Wonderful  what?  Chances, 
perhaps.  Opportunities.  Possibilities.  Certainly  no 
body  else  ever  had  such  as  lay  before  Jim  Albro  if  he 
could  have  won  free  to  take  them,  as  a  conqueror,  as  a 
god.  Was  he  dreaming  even  then  of  empire?  Had 
he  had  a  glimpse  into  the  meaning  of  Papua  that  struck 
fire  to  his  roving  and  restless  soul?  Had  he  fallen 
enamored  of  the  sphinx,  and  had  she  drawn  the  veil  for 
him?  It  may  be.  The  fact  stands  that,  fevered  and  tor 
tured  as  he  was,  burning  with  thirst  and  pain,  he  dis 
covered  something  capable  of  rousing  that  cry  from 


56         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

him.    We  hear  the  cry,  and  that  is  all  we  hear  —  nearly. 

.  .  .  suppose  I  should  take  a  hand  at  this  dumb  show  myself. 
I  could  do  it.  I  know  I  could.  Am  going  to  trust  old  Gum-eye. 
And  afterward.  .  .  . 

Peters  looked  up  from  the  last  page. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Jeckol  impatiently. 

"That's  the  end,"  announced  Peters. 

I  cannot  say  what  the  breathless  group  of  us  had 
been  expecting.  Possibly  the  first-hand  memoir  of  a 
miracle  would  have  satisfied  us,  or  the  harrowing  con 
fessions  and  last  wishes  of  the  moribund.  But  so  nat 
ural  and  unfanciful  a  thing  as  a  full  stop  to  the  ten 
sion  left  us  stupefied.  We  felt  aggrieved,  too,  as  if 
the  author  should  have  postponed  his  business  long 
enough  to  let  us  know  whether  he  was  dead  or  not. 

"  It  can't  be ! "  cried  Jeckol,  all  abroad.  "  How 
could  it  end  there?  What  happened  to  him?  Where 
is  he?" 

Peters  swung  his  gaze  around  the  vacant  clearing 
and  the  impenetrable  palisade  of  the  forest. 

"  This  was  written  three  months  ago,  remember,"  he 
said. 

"  But  he  had  a  plan,"  insisted  Jeckol.  "  He  surely 
had  a  plan.  He  says  he  was  going  to  do  something. 
He'd  found  a  friend  he  could  trust.  What  next?" 

"  That  friend  must  ha'  failed  him." 

Cap'n  Bartlet  shook  himself  like  one  awaking.  "  No 
friend  would  have  failed  him,"  he  said  deliberately. 
"  And  —  you're  forgetting  that  ship  boy  again." 

Once  more,  with  a  rattled  oath,  Peters  pounced  on 
the  unfortunate  Kakwe,  quailing  beside  him.  Once 
more  he  brought  to  bear  the  persuasion  he  best  knew 
how  to  use;  and  once  more  the  black  boy  submitted, 
wholly,  and  showed.  He  had  nothing  to  tell.  He 


THE  LOST  GOD  57 

could  throw  no  light  on  events.  But  he  had  seen  from 
the  trees  where  the  "  white  fella  mahrster  him  diver  " 
forgathered  with  all  the  fiends  of  the  pit,  whereat  he 
was  "  too  much  fright,"  and  he  showed  us  this  time 
up  the  platform  of  the  identical  wide-thatched  house 
by  which  we  had  been  standing.  We  crept  in  through 
the  low  entrance  and  across  a  floor  of  sagging  bamboo 
mats  and  found  ourselves  before  a  curtain  of  pandanus 
that  hung  midway.  We  were  long  past  astonishment, 
but  Jeckol,  arresting  a  gesture,  dropped  his  hand. 

"  I  daren't,"  he  whimpered. 

It  was  Bartlet  who  put  the  curtain  aside.  And  there, 
in  the  twilight  of  the  place,  we  saw  the  god  as  he  had 
appeared  in  his  recent  earthly  phase.  His  great  copper 
head  gleamed  at  the  back  of  a  shallow  niche,  madie 
fast  against  the  wall.  The  muffled,  stiff  clumsiness  of 
his  diving  dress  revealed  a  heroic  figure,  still  disposed 
in  the  attitude  of  a  sitting  Buddha,  with  the  leaden- 
soled  diving  shoes  thrust  out  by  either  knee.  His 
single  huge  eye  glared  down  at  us  balefully  from  over 
the  altar  as  we  stood,  overhelmed  in  the  presence. 
"  And  so  he  did  —  pass  out,"  said  Jeckol. 

Something  had  caught  the  quick  eye  of  Peters. 
Horrified,  we  saw  him  step  forward  and  lay  a  vigorous 
and  sacrilegious  hold  on  that  high  divinity,  saw  the 
shape  start  and  tremble  as  with  life,  saw  it  shake  and 
flutter  like  a  bundle  of  rags  in  the  wind,  and  flap  — 
emptily.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,"  said  Peters.  "  He's  passed  out,  right  enough. 
Leastways  from  here.  Passed  out,  and  on.  And  quite 
easy  too.  Look  at  these  slits  —  would  you?" 

The  diving  suit  had  been  laid  open  like  a  stripped 
pelt  with  long  cuts  of  a  keen  blade,  one  down  the  mid 
dle  of  the  back,  one  across  the  shoulders,  and  others 
connected  along  the  inside  of  each  limb  to  the  wrists 
and  ankles. 


58         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

"Gone!" 

"  Gone,"  confirmed  Peters.  "  Whether  the  niggers 
dug  him  from  it  piece  by  piece  like  the  kernel  from  a 
nut  or  whether  that  friend  of  his  helped  him  to  shed 
complete  —  you  can  take  your  choice.  In  either  case 
he's  gone  —  and  gone  this  time  to  stay." 

"  There's  no  —  no  blood !  "  gasped  Jeckol.  "  Any 
how!" 

Cap'n  Bartlet  had  removed  his  hat  to  polish  his  shiny 
forehead  with  the  colorful  kerchief,  and  he  was  looking 
out  of  the  door  over  the  tops  of  the  trees  to  the  far  blue 
and  nameless  mountains  of  Papua,  with  an  eye  at 
peace. 

"  You  could  always  bank  on  the  luck  of  James 
O'Shaughnessy  Albro,"  he  said  simply.  "  I  knew  he 
was  alive." 

But  Jeckol  was  still  reeling. 

"  I  shan't  write  this  yarn,"  he  assured  us  earnestly. 

"  It's  too  —  it's  too  —  and  besides,  there's  no  end  to 
it."  .  .  . 

"Hie  finis  fandi"  suggested  Peters. 


THE  PASSION  VINE 

IT  is  difficult  to  find  an  excuse  for  Miss  Matilda. 
She  was  a  missionary's  daughter,  committed  to 
the  sacred  cause  of  respectability  in  a  far  land. 
Motauri  was  a  gentleman  of  sorts  and  a  scholar  after 
his  own  fashion,  a  high  chief  and  a  descendant  of 
kings;  but  he  was  also  a  native  and  a  pagan.  Strict 
ly,  it  should  have  been  nothing  to  Miss  Matilda  that 
Motauri  looked  most  distractingly  like  a  young 
woodland  god,  with  a  skin  the  exact  shade  of  new 
heather  honey,  the  ringlets  of  a  faun,  the  features  of 
a  Roman  cameo  and  the  build  of  a  Greek  athlete. 

Being  a  chief  in  the  flower  valley  of  Wailoa  meant 
that  Motauri  owned  a  stated  number  of  cocoanut- 
trees  and  never  had  to  do  anything  except  to  swim 
and  to  laugh,  to  chase  the  rainbow-fish  a  fathom  deep 
and  to  play  divinely  on  the  nose-flute.  But  being  as 
handsome  as  Motauri  meant  that  many  a  maiden 
heart  must  sigh  after  him  and  flutter  in  strange,  wild 
rhythm  under  the  compelling  of  his  gentle  glance. 
This  was  all  very  well  so  long  as  the  maidens  were 
among  his  own  people.  It  took  a  different  aspect 
when  he  turned  the  said  glance  on  Miss  Matilda,  who 
was  white  and  slim  and  wore  mitts  to  keep  her  hands 
from  tanning  and  did  crewelwork  in  the  veranda  of 
her  father's  house  behind  the  splendid  screen  of  the 
passion-vine.  .  .  . 

Now  falling  in  love  with  a  man  of  color  is  distinctly 
one  of  the  things  that  are  not  done  —  that  scarcely 
endure  to  be  spoken  of.  We  have  it  on  the  very  high 
est  authority  that  the  East  has  a  stubborn  habit  of 
never  being  the  West.  Where  two  eligible  persons  of 

59 


60         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

opposite  sex  are  concerned  the  stark  geographic,  not 
to  say  ethnologic  fact  comes  grimly  into  play,  and 
never  these  twain  shall  meet:  or  anyway  the  world 
agrees  they  never  ought. 

Yet  Miss  Matilda  had  been  meeting  Motauri.  Per 
haps  the  passion-vine  was  to  blame.  The  passion-vine 
is  too  exuberant  to  be  altogether  respectable.  One 
cannot  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  passion- vine  —  and 
that  embraces  all  the  heady  scent  and  vivid  tint  and 
soft  luxuriance  of  the  islands  where  life  goes  as 
sweetly  as  a  song ;  the  warm  caress  of  the  trade-wind, 
the  diamond  dance  of  spray;  the  throbbing  organ- 
pipe  of  the  reef,  the  bridal-veiling  of  mountain 
streams,  the  flaunting  of  palm  and  plantain,  the 
twinkling  signal  of  fireflies  at  dusk  —  one  cannot  live 
with  all  this  and  confine  one's  emotions  to  a  conven 
tional  pattern  of  gray  and  blue  worsted  yarns.  At 
least  one  has  trouble  in  so  doing  while  the  thrill  and 
spring  of  youth  remain. 

They  remained  with  Miss  Matilda,  though  guarded 
by  natural  discretion.  Nothing  could  have  been 
cooler  than  the  gleam  of  her  starched  gingham,  as  she 
moved  sedately  down  the  mountain  path  to  chapel  of 
a  Sunday  morning.  Nothing  more  demure  than  the 
droop  of  her  lashes  under  the  rim  of  the  severe, 
Quakerish  bonnet,  as  she  smote  the  wheezy  old  melo- 
deon  for  the  dusky  choir.  In  that  flawless  face,  a 
little  faded,  a  little  wearied,  you  would  have  sought 
vainly  for  any  hint  of  hard  repression,  for  any  ravag 
ing  of  secret  revolt  —  unless,  like  Hull  Gregson,  the 
trader,  you  had  made  a  despairing  study  of  it  and  had 
kept  its  image  before  your  hot  eyes  throughout  long, 
sleepless  nights;  unless,  more  particularly,  like  Mo 
tauri,  you  had  been  privileged  to  see  it  by  the  moon 
light  that  sifts  through  the  rifts  of  the  passion-vine. 
Then,  perhaps  .  .  . 

Certainly  her  excellent  father  would  have  been  the 


THE  PASSION-VINE  61 

last,  unprompted  and  of  his  own  motion,  to  develop 
any  such  suspicion.  Pastor  Spener  had  learned  to 
fight  shy  of  so  many  suspicions,  so  many  discomfort- 
able  questions.  And  this  was  well.  Otherwise  he 
might  have  been  led  to  wonder  occasionally  at  his 
own  presence  and  his  own  work;  at  the  whole  im 
posed  and  artificial  shadow  of  a  bleak  civilization  up 
on  these  sunny  isles,  these  last  remnants  of  an  earthly 
paradise. 

He  seldom  permitted  himself  to  wonder  about  any 
thing  except  the  singular  inadequacy  of  mission  sup 
port  and  the  rising  cost  per  head  of  making  converts, 
and  keeping  them.  But  there  were  times  when  he 
chanced  to  consider,  perhaps,  some  drunken  derelict 
outsprawled  by  a  hospitable  breadfruit,  or  again  some 
lovely  sea-born  creature  of  his  flock,  stumbling  past 
in  all  the  naive  absurdity  of  Mother  Hubbard  and 
brogans  —  these  were  moments  that  brought  doubt 
to  the  good  pastor;  moments  when  he  glimpsed  the 
unanswered  problem  of  commingled  races,  of  white 
exile  and  brown  host,  of  lonely  invader  and  docile 
subject. 

"  We  have  our  little  trials  — "  he  said,  and  smoothed 
them  rather  fretfully,  and  as  speedily  as  might  be, 
from  his  pink,  bald  brow  and  laid  them  with  the  well- 
ordered  welt  of  ungrayed  hair  atop. 

For  had  he  not  also  his  mission,  his  infant  class, 
his  home,  his  books,  his  reports?  —  a  whole  solid  and 
established  institution  from  which  to  draw  the  protec 
tive  formulae  of  respectability.  Even  in  the  lands  of 
the  passion-vine,  the  Pastor  Speners  will  inevitably 
gather  such  formulae  about  them  as  a  snail  secretes 
its  shell.  .  .  . 

"  Undeniably,"  he  said,  abstractedly,  "  we  have  our 
perplexities.  Guidance  is  not  always  forthcoming  in 
these  matters.  Would  you  take  the  little  money  we 
have  put  by  —  you  remember  we  were  going  to  pur- 


62         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

chase  a  new  oil  lamp  for  the  chapel  —  would  you  take 
that  money  to  buy  yellow  ribbons  for  Jeremiah's 
Loo?" 

"Why  does  Jeremiah's  Loo  need  ribbons?"  asked 
Miss  Matilda. 

"  She  is  going  to  marry  that  tramp  shell-buyer  from 
Papeete.  At  least  she  consents  to  a  ceremony,  if  she 
can  have  the  ribbons.  A  wild  girl.  I've  never  had 
much  hold  over  her.  ...  It  would  be  in  some  sort  a 
bribe,  I  admit — " 

Father  and  daughter  were  seated  in  the  arbored 
veranda  at  the  daily  solemn  rite  of  tea.  For  many 
years  Pastor  Spener  had  been  used  to  hold  forth  on 
sins  and  vanities  at  this  hour  before  twilight.  For 
many  years  the  meek  partner  of  his  joys  and  sorrows 
had  assisted  there,  dispensing  the  scant  manna  of  dry 
toast  and  tapping  the  prim  bulk  of  the  tea-urn  —  that 
sure  rock  of  respectability  the  world  around.  And 
since  she  had  passed  to  the  tiny  cemetery  on  the  hill 
side,  it  had  not  been  easy  to  alter  the  patriarchal  cus 
tom;  not  easy  always  to  remember  that  the  place 
across  from  him  was  now  filled  by  another,  a  younger, 
and  in  the  ways  of  the  world  and  the  flesh,  a  wholly 
innocent  auditor. 

Ordinarily  Miss  Matilda  did  little  to  remind  him. 
Ordinarily  she  listened  with  the  same  meek  deference. 
But  Miss  Matilda's  state  of  mind  for  some  time  past 
had  been  very  far  from  ordinary;  it  chanced  that  on 
this  particular  afternoon  the  private,  the  very  private, 
affairs  of  Miss  Matilda  had  brought  her  to  a  condition 
altogether  extraordinary  —  almost  reckless. 

"You  don't  know  the  man,"  she  suggested,  "or 
anything  about  him." 

He  blinked. 

"  I  don't  —  no.    Nothing  good." 

"  Still  you  are  willing  to  marry  them." 


THE  PASSION-VINE  63 

Now  this  was  a  clear  departure,  and  a  daring  one, 
but  considering  all  things  perhaps  not  strange. 

For  the  last  thirty  minutes,  since  the  pastor's  re 
turn  from  the  village  below,  Miss  Matilda  had  been 
conscious  of  a  tension  in  the  domestic  air.  Up  to  his 
mention  of  Jeremiah's  Loo  an  oppressive  silence  had 
brooded,  and  from  his  manner  of  eyeing  her  over  his 
teacup  there  was  reason  to  fear  that  something  more 
troublous  than  yellow  ribbons  had  ruffled  his  pink 
serenity.  If  Miss  Matilda  had  been  the  trembling 
kind  she  would  have  trembled  now  at  her  own 
temerity  —  the  result  of  indefinable  impulse.  And 
yet  when  his  answer  came  it  was  no  rebuke,  rather  it 
was  eager,  with  an  unwonted  touch  of  embarrass 
ment. 

"What  would  you  have  me  do,  my  dear?"  he  said. 
"  I  can't  pass  judgment  on  these  people.  Our  society 
is  limited  —  largely  primitive.  How  many  months  is 
it  since  you  saw  another  white  woman  here  in  Wailoa, 
for  instance  ?  They  wish  to  wed  —  that's  enough." 

"  The  man  is  white  and  the  girl  is  a  native,  and  you 
would  marry  them  so  readily?" 

Miss  Matilda  put  the  query  with  perfect  outward 
calm.  The  Reverend  Spener  himself  was  the  one  to 
clatter  his  cup. 

"What  would  you  have?"  he  repeated.  "I  marry 
them;  yes.  I  will  marry  any  that  ask  —  barring 
known  criminals  —  and  only  too  thankful  to  lend  re 
ligious  sanction.  Because  —  don't  you  see?  —  they 
are  bound  to  marry  anyhow.  Matilda  — "  He  brought 
up  short  and  regarded  her  with  sharpened  concern, 
very  curious  for  a  man  who  was  commonly  so  sure  of 
himself.  "  My  dear  daughter,  I  don't  believe  I've 
ever  explained  this  point  to  you  before.  It's  not  —  er 
—  it's  a  subject  rather  awkward  to  discuss.  But  since 
we've  reached  it,  there  is  a  need  why  I  should  intrude 


64         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

briefly  upon  your  delicacy.  ...  A  very  definite  need." 

If  she  gave  a  quick  movement,  it  was  only  to  set  the 
tea-cozy  in  place.  If  there  came  a  flush  athwart  her 
pale  cheek,  it  might  have  been  a  chance  ray  of  the 
deep  western  sun,  filtering  through  the  trellis. 

"Yes?"  she  said. 

"  I  am  quit/e  clear  about  the  marriages.  Quite 
clear.  I  cannot  say  I  advocate  them,  but  in  any  such 
community  as  ours  they  have  always  been  inevitable. 
The  missionary  merely  provides  the  service  of  the 
church,  as  in  duty  bound.  Who  shall  deny  that  he 
does  the  Lord's  work  toward  unifying  the  island 
type  ?  "  He  blinked  nervously,  balked  at  his  own  lead 
and  started  again. 

"  As  to  any  stigma  that  may  attach  to  such  a  union 
—  really,  you  know,  it's  not  as  if  our  natives  had  the 
least  negroid  taint.  They  are  Caucasians.  Yes,  my 
dear,  that  is  scientifically  true.  The  Polynesian  people 
are  an  early  migration  of  the  great  Caucasian  race. 
Besides  which,  they  are  very  fair  to  look  upon  —  un 
deniably —  very  fair  indeed." 

She  sat  transfixed,  but  the  most  amazing  part  was 
to  come.  .  .  . 

"  Consider,  moreover,"  he  pleaded  —  actually  it  was 
as  if  he  pleaded  — "  considered  the  position  of  the  resi 
dent  white  in  these  isles,  far  from  the  restraints  and 
manifold  affairs  of  his  own  world.  Life  is  apt  to  be 
come  very  dreary,  very  monotonous  for  him.  Ah, 
yes,  Matilda,  you  could  scarce  imagine,  but  it  palls  — 
it  palls.  He  requires  —  er  —  diversion,  as  it  were, 
companionship,  a  personal  share  in  such  charm  and  — 
er  —  sensuous  appeal  as  flourish  so  richly  on  all  sides 
of  him.  Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  question  in 
that  light?  You  haven't,  of  course,  my  dear.  But 
consider  the  temptation." 

He  ended  by  retreating  hastily  behind  his  teacup, 
quite  unnecessarily,  as  it  proved.  Miss  Matilda  was 


THE  PASSION-VINE  65 

in  no  condition  just  then  to  deploy  the  expected 
maidenly  emotions.  Consider!"  Had  she  not? 
Had  she  been  thinking  of  anything  else  these  past 
feverish  weeks?  What  other  exile  could  have  taught 
any  secrets  of  monotony  or  dreariness  to  the  daugh 
ter  of  a  lone  missionary? 

Chapel,  school,  homte  and  chapel  again,  and  in 
this  round  each  daily  move  foreseen  and  prescribed. 
An  hour  for  getting  up  and  an  hour  for  lying  down; 
an  hour  for  eating  and  an  hour  for  praying;  for  turn 
ing  a  page  and  for  threading  a  needle.  No  escape 
from  the  small  formal  proprieties  in  which  her  father 
had  molded  their  lives.  No  friend,  no  neighbor,  no 
acquaintance  except  native  pupils  and  servants.  No 
stimulus  except  the  moral  discourse  of  a  reverend 
tyrant.  No  interests  except  the  same  petty  worries 
and  the  same  money  needs.  .  .  . 

From  where  she  sat  in  the  veranda  she  could  see 
no  single  object  to  break  the  deadly  sameness  of  it. 
There  were  the  same  sticks  of  unsuitable  furniture 
in  the  same  immutable  order,  the  same  rugs  at  the 
same  angles;  the  same  dishes,  the  same  books,  the 
same  pictures  on  the  walls  — "  The  Prodigal's  Re 
turn,"  chromolithograph,  in  a  South  Pacific  isle! 
And  all  this  not  merely  happening  so,  as  it  might 
very  well  happen  elsewhere.  Here  it  was  laboriously 
achieved,  a  triumph  of  formulated  rectitude,  trans 
planted  bodily  for  a  reproof  and  an  example  to  the 
heart  of  the  riotous  tropics.  .  .  . 

"  Why  did  you  say  there  was  need  to  explain  to 
me,  father?"  she  managed  to  ask  at  last. 

But  the  pastor  had  had  time  to  reform  his  lines. 

"  I  spoke  somewhat  at  large,"  he  said,  with  a  wave. 
"  My  specific  purpose  was  to  define  an  attitude  which 
perhaps  you  may  have  mistaken  —  to  warn  you 
against  undue  intolerance,  my  dear.  You  see,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  a  talk  to-day  on  this  sarnie 


66         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

head  —  quite  a  helpful  talk  —  with  Captain  Gregson." 

For  all  her  preoccupation  with  her  own  problems 
the  name  caught  her  with  new  astonishment. 

"Gregson!     The  trader?" 

"  Captain,"  he  repeated,  significantly.  "  Captain 
Gregson." 

"You  talked  with  him?"  she  exclaimed.  "But 
he  —  but  you  —  I've  heard  you  say  — " 

Thereupon  Pastor  Spener  took  the  upper  hand  de 
cisively,  like  one  who  has  come  off  well  in  an  anxious 
skirmish  over  difficult  ground. 

"  Never  mind  what  you  have  heard,  my  dear.  Many 
things  have  been  said  of  him  —  idle  chatter  of  the 
beaches.  He  has  been  sadly  misjudged.  Captain 
Gregson  is  a  very  remarkable  man,  besides  being  the 
wealthiest  in  the  islands  —  undeniably,  quite  the 
wealthiest.  .  .  .  He  intends  joining  our  church." 

Miss  Matilda  rose  from  the  table  and  moved  away 
to  the  open  side  of  the  veranda,  looking  off  to  sea 
ward.  Tall,  erect,  with  her  hands  resting  on  the  high 
rail,  she  made  a  decorous  and  restful  figure  against 
the  sunset  sky.  But  those  hands,  so  casual  seem 
ing,  were  driving  their  nails  into  the  wood.  For 
within  the  maiden  breast  of  Miss  Matilda,  behind 
that  obtrusive  composure,  there  seethed  a  tumult 
of  question,  alarm,  bewilderment.  .  .  ; 

This  startling  dissertation  of  her  father's  —  she 
could  not  begin  to  think  what  it  meant.  Was  it  pos 
sible,  in  spite  of  all  assurance,  was  it  possible  that 
he  knew,  had  heard  or  guessed  —  about  Motauri? 
And  if  he  had,  was  it  conceivable  that  he  should 
speak  so  —  to  state,  as  it  might  be,  the  very  terms 
of  her  guilt,  an  actual  plea  for  that  unnameable  temp 
tation  to  which  she  had  been  drifting?  It  was  mad. 
She  could  no  longer  be  sure  of  anything,  of  her 
safety,  her  purpose,  her  father,  herself  —  truly,  of 
herself.  And  Gregson!  An  evil  presentiment  had 


THE  PASSION- VINE  67 

pierced  her  at  his  mention  of  the  gross,  dark,  enig 
matic  trader,  whose  intent  regard  she  had  felt  fixed 
upon  her  so  often  —  whenever  she  met  him  on  the 
village  path  or  passed  his  broad-eaved  house  by  the 
beach.  What  did  it  mean? 

Through  a  gap  in  the  passion-vine  she  gazed  out 
and  over  the  whole  side  of  the  mountain  into  the 
wide  glory  of  the  sunset.  There  was  nothing  to 
interrupt  that  full  outward  sweep,  nothing  between 
her  and  the  horizon. 

The  parsonage  at  Wailoa  could  never  have  been 
placed  or  built  by  any  one  of  the  Reverend  Spener's 
level  temperament.  He  had  never  found  anything 
but  a  grievance  in  the  fact  that  he  should  have  to 
dwell  so  far  aloft  from  routine  affairs  in  a  spot  of  the 
wildest  and  most  romantic  beauty.  The  village  it 
self  lay  hidden  below  and  to  the  left,  at  the  mouth 
of  the  valley,  whence  the  smoke  of  its  hearths  rose 
as  incense.  Half-way  up  the  winding  track  stood 
his  little  chapel  in  a  grove  of  limes.  And  here  on  a 
higher  terrace  of  the  basalt  cliff,  like  an  eyrie  —  or, 
perhaps  more  fittingly,1  a  swallow's  nest  —  was 
perched  the  pastor's  home.  The  lush  growth  of  an 
untamed  jungle  massed  up  to  its  step;  beetling 
heights  menaced  it  from  behind ;  and  always,  at  all 
seasons,  a  rushing  mountain  torrent  in  the  ravine 
beside  made  its  flimsy  walls  to  thrill,  disturbing  its 
peace  with  musical  clamor. 

That  stream  should  have  been  indicted  for  tres 
pass  and  disorder  by  the  worthy  pastor's  way  of 
thinking.  Somehow  all  the  unruly  and  wayward 
elements  of  his  charge  seemed  to  find  expression  in 
those  singing  waters,  which  were  not  to  be  dammed 
or  turned  aside.  From  the  veranda-rail  one  might 
lean  and  toss  anything  —  a  passion-flower  —  into  the 
current  and  follow  it  as  it  danced  away  down  the 
broken  slide,  lost  here  and  there  arnjd  mists  and 


68         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

milky  pools  and  the  shadowing  tangle  of  lianas, 
snatched  at  last  through  a  chute  and  over  a  sheer 
outfall,  to  reappear  some  minutes  later  as  a  spark 
in  the  fret  of  the  surf  far  below. 

Standing  there  at  the  verge  of  the  world,  Miss  Ma 
tilda  watched  the  day's  end.  For  a  time  the  bright 
gates  stayed  open  at  the  end  of  an  unrolled,  flaming 
carpet  across  the  sea,  then  slowly  drew  in,  implac 
ably  swung  to,  while  the  belated  spirit  sprang  hurry 
ing  forward  —  too  late.  With  an  almost  audible 
brazen  clang  they  closed,  and  Miss  Matilda  drew 
back,  chilled,  as  the  veranda  shook  to  a  heavy  foot 
fall.  .  .  . 

"  Ah,  Captain  Gregson  —  step  up,  sir ! "  Her 
father's  voice  was  unctuous  with  welcome  as  he  has 
tened  to  meet  the  ponderous  bulk  that  loomed 
through  the  dusk.  "  Happily  met,  sir.  You  are  just 
in  time  to  join  us  at  prayers.  I  believe  you  must 
know  my  daughter  —  Matilda  ?  " 

It  was  strange  to  hear  the  pastor  use  such  a  tone 
with  such  a  visitor,  and  stranger  still  to  see  the  as 
surance  with  which  Captain  Gregson  entered  the 
parsonage,  where  he  had  never  until  now  set  foot. 

"  Evening,  Pastor.  Just  a  moment.  That  path  — 
pretty  tough  on  a  chap  who's  used  —  ship's  deck  as 
much  as  I  have,  d'y'  see?  Very  kind,  I'm  sure.  Very 
kind  and  neighborly.  And  this  —  Miss  Matilda,  if 
I  may  say  so  bold.  .  .  .  Very  proud  to  know  you, 
ma'am.  Proud  and  happy." 

He  made  her  his  bow,  plying  a  broad  straw  hat 
and  a  billowy  handkerchief  of  tussore  silk.  She 
found  herself  answering  him.  And  presently  —  most 
singular  thing  of  all  —  he  had  properly  ensconced 
himself  by  the  tall  astral  lamp  like  one  of  the  family 
circle,  balancing  a  Testament  on  his  knee  and  read 
ing  his  verse  in  turn  with  surprising  facility.  .  .  . 


THE  PASSION-VINE  69 

Captain  Hull  Gregson  was  one  of  those  men  appar 
ently  preserved  in  lard,  whose  shiny,  tanned  skin 
seems  as  impervious  as  Spanish  leather  alike  to  age 
and  to  rude  usage.  But  if  his  years  were  indeter 
minate,  his  eyes  were  as  old  as  blue  pebbles.  By  those 
eyes,  as  by  his  slow,  forceful  speech  and  rare  gesture, 
as  by  a  certain  ruthless  jut  of  jaw,  was  revealed  the 
exploiter,  the  conquering  white  that  has  taken  the 
South  Pacific  for  an  ordained  possession. 

He  had  led  a  varied  and  more  or  less  picturesque 
career  up  and  down  the  warm  seas.  He  had  been 
a  copra  buyer  through  black  Melanesia  in  the  open 
days;  had  owned  his  ships  and  sailed  them  after 
labor  in  the  Archipelago  with  a  price  on  his  head 
and  his  life  in  his  hand.  And  now,  rich  in  phosphate 
shares  and  plantation  partnerships,  a  sort  of  comfort 
able  island  squire,  he  had  retired  to  peaceful  Wailoa 
at  last  as  a  quiet  corner  where  business  was  play 
and  the  hot  roll  dropped  on  time  from  the  bread 
fruit-tree.  So  much  was  said  of  him,  and  it  was  not 
considered  the  part  either  of  wisdom  or  of  island 
etiquette  to  say  much  more  —  nor  was  much  else 
required  to  set  him  in  his  place.  Certainly  he  might 
have  seemed  somewhat  out  of  it  now.  The  type  does 
not  pervade  the  parlors  of  the  missionaries  as  a  rule. 

But  Captain  Gregson  turned  it  off  very  well.  Once 
he  had  recovered  his  breath,  and  a  purplish  haze  had 
cleared  from  his  face,  the  comported  himself  easily, 
even  impressively,  neither  belittling  nor  forcing  the 
social  event,  the  while  that  Pastor  Spener  beamed 
encouragement  and  smoothed  a  complacent  brow 

"  It's  like  I  told  you  to-day,  Pastor.  The  notion 
came  to  me  like  that  —  I've  been  a  bad  neighbor. 
There's  so  few  of  us  marooned  here,  like.  I  said  to 
myself  —  where's  the  use  of  being  strangers,  hey? 
Why  not  get  neighborly  with  those  good  folks  and 
help  along  that  good  work  of  faith  and  righteousness. 
Why  not,  hey  —  ?  " 


70         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

He  spoke  with  an  effect  of  heartiness  that  delighted 
the  Reverend  Spener,  and  that  fell  on  the  ear  of  the 
Reverend  Spener's  daughter  as  hollow  as  a  drum. 

"Why  not,  indeed?"   echoed  the  pastor. 

"  So  many  places  you  find  a  kind  of  feud  betwixt 
the  commercial  people  and  the  mission  people,"  con 
tinued  Captain  Gregson.  "Where's  the  sense  of  it? 
I  believe  in  you,  Pastor,  and  your  work  and  your 
church.  Yes,  and  I  feel  the  need  of  the  church  my 
self,  and  a  chance  to  visit  a  fine  respectable  home 
like  this.  .  .  .  Why  shouldn't  I  have  it?" 

Miss  Matilda  carefully  avoided  looking  toward 
him,  where  he  sat  wedged  between  the  fragile  bam 
boo  what-not  and  the  lacquer  tabouret,  well  knowing 
that  she  must  cross  his  smoldering  gaze  and  shun 
ning  it. 

"  And  perhaps,  by  the  same  token,  perhaps  you 
might  need  me  too  and  not  know  it,"  he  continued. 
"  I've  a  notion  I  might  be  of  some  service  to  the 
cause,  d'y  see?" 

"  Undeniably,  Captain,"  said  the  pastor,  eagerly. 
"  A  man  so  '  influential  —  so  experienced  as  your 
self—" 

"Could  help,  hey?  It's  what  I  think  myself.  I 
could.  Why  even  now  I'll  lay  I  could  tell  you  mat 
ters  —  things  going  on  right  under  your  nose,  so  to 
speak  —  that  you'd  hardly  dream  yourself." 

"Among  my  people?"  asked  the  pastor,  wrink 
ling. 

"  Aye.  Right  among  your  own  people  —  at  least 
some  of  the  wild  ones  that  you  want  to  be  most  care 
ful  of.  They're  a  devilish  bold,  sly  lot  for  all  their 
pretty  ways  —  these  brown  islanders  —  an  astonish 
ing  bold  lot.  You'd  hardly  believe  that  now,  would 
you  — ?"  His  voice  dragged  fatly.  "Would  you  — 
Miss  Matilda?" 

Taken  aback,  she  could  not  speak,  could  scarcely 


THE  PASSION-VINE  71 

parry  the  attack  with  a  vague  murmur.  She  feared 
him.  She  feared  that  slow,  glowering  and  dangerous 
man,  whose  every  word  came  freighted  with  obscure 
and  sinister  meaning.  The  instinct  dimly  aroused 
by  her  glimpses  of  him  had  leapt  to  vivid  conviction. 
She  knew  that  he  was  staring  across  the  room;  star 
ing  avidly  at  the  fresh  whiteness  of  her  there,  the 
precise,  slim  lines  of  her  dress,  the  curve  of  her  neck, 
the  gleam  of  her  low-parted  hair.  And  it  seemed  as 
if  he  were  towering  toward  her,  reaching  for  her  with 
hot  and  pudgy  hands  — 

But  he  had  merely  risen  to  take  his  leave. 

"  Well,  I  won't  be  lingering,  Pastor,"  he  said. 
"  Not  this  time.  You  stop  by  my  shack  to-morrow, 
and  we'll  talk  further.  Maybe  I  might  have  some 
facts  that  would  interest  you.  What  I  really  came 
for  to-night  was  to  bring  a  bit  of  news." 

"News?"  blinked  the  pastor. 

"  You  should  go  below  and  look  to  your  chapel," 
chuckled  Gregson.  "  I  minded  what  you  said  about 
new  lamps  being  wanted,  d'y'  see?  And  so  I  made 
bold  to  hang  two  fine  brass  lights  in  the  porch  there 
myself  —  as  a  gift-offering." 

"For  us!     For  the  church — ?" 

"  Aye.  It's  a  small  thing.  But  I've  noticed  myself 
lately  how  those  lamps  were  needed."  He  paused. 
"  That's  a  plaguey  dark  place  for  lurking  and  loiter 
ing —  that  chapel  porch." 

He  was  gone;  the  Reverend  Spener  had  returned 
from  'escorting  him  to  the  step  and  was  still  formulat 
ing  praise  and  gratitude;  but  Miss  Matilda  had  not 
stirred. 

"  Matilda  —  !  I'm  speaking  to  you.  I  say  —  we've 
been  less  than  just  to  Captain  Gregson,  don't  you 
think?  Really,  a  most  hearty,  true  gentleman.  Did 
I  tell  you  he's  settled  the  difficulty  with  Jeremiah's 


72         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 
Loo  offhand?     Oh,  quite.     One  word  from  him,  and 
they're  asking  for  a  church  wedding  now.    And  there 
are  other  things  I  might  tell  you  as  well  — " 

She  turned  to  look  full  at  her  father. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  wish  you  might  tell  me. 
What  did  you  bring  that  man  here  for?" 

The  pastor  went  a  pinker  shade. 

"  I  didn't  bring  him.  He  came  of  his  own  motion. 
He  desired  most  earnestly  to  come." 

"You  gave  him  permission?" 

"  I  did ;  after  he  had  explained  —  after  he  showed 
me  —  Matilda.  .  .  .  The  short  of  it  is,  we've  wronged 
Captain  Gregson.  You  have  heard  that  he  used  to 
live  with  a  native  girl  on  Napuka?" 

"  Everybody  has  heard  it." 

"  Well,"  said  the  pastor,  solemnly,  "  he  was  mar 
ried  to  that  girl.  I've  seen  the  certificate  —  quite 
regular  —  signed  by  the  Moravian  missionary.  There 
were  no  children,  and  also  —  and  also  my  dear,  he  is 
now  free.  He  received  word  by  yesterday's  schooner 
of  the  death  of  —  her  —  Mrs.  Gregson.  You  see?" 

"Ah —  !"  breathed  Miss  Matilda,  who  did  indeed 
begin  to  see. 

He  laid  a  hand  on  her  arm  and  gave  way  at  last 
to  a  paternal  quaver.  "  Matilda,  my  child  —  for  you 
are  still  a  child  in  many  things  —  I  have  taken  anx 
ious  thought  for  you  of  late.  Very  anxious  thought. 
You  must  trust  me,  my  dear.  Trust  me  to  do  the 
best  f6r  your  welfare  —  and  happiness  too  —  as  al 
ways.  Good  night ! "  .  .  . 

He  left  her  a  dry  kiss  and  a  fervent  blessing  and 
they  parted;  the  pastor  to  write  a  particularly  hope 
ful  mission  report,  and  this  child  of  his  —  who  was, 
by  the  way,  twenty-nine  years  old  —  to  keep  a  last 
tryst  with  a  lawless  and  forbidden  love.  She  knew 
it  must  be  the  last.  For  the  previous  one,  two  nights 
before,  had  been  held  in  the  porch  of  the  chapel  — 


THE  PASSION- VINE  73 

in  that  same  dark  porch  so  benevolently,  so  de 
ceitfully  endowed  by  Captain  Hull  Gregson.  .  .  . 

Her  own  room  opened  directly  on  the  veranda.  She 
paused  only  long  enough  to  snatch  up  a  shawl,  as 
she  passed  through  to  the  far  side  of  the  house.  Here 
she  could  be  safe  from  hostile  ears  where  the  moun 
tain  torrent  ran  thundering;  safe  from  prying  eyes 
in  the  velvet  shadows  of  the  passion-vine. 

She  parted  the  leaves  and  harkened.  A  soft,  thin 
trilling  came  up  to  her  from  the  edge  of  the  guava 
jungle  in  the  ravine,  a  mere  silver  thread  of  melody 
against  the  stream's  broad  clamor.  And  then  as 
she  leaned  farther  out,  so  that  her  face  showed  for 
a  moment  like  a  pale  blossom  in  the  trellis,  Motauri 
came.  He  came  drifting  through  the  moonlight  with 
a  wreath  of  green  about  his  head,  a  flower  chain  over 
his  broad,  bare  shoulders,  clad  only  in  a  kilted  white 
pareu  —  the  very  spirit  of  youth  and  strength  and 
joyous,  untrammeled  freedom,  stepped  down  from 
the  days  when  Faunus  himself  walked  abroad. 

"  Hokoolele ! "  he  called  gently,  and  smiled  up  to 
ward  her,  the  most  splendid  figure  of  a  man  her  eyes 
had  ever  beheld.  "  Star "  was  his  name  for  her, 
though  indeed  she  was  a  very  wan  and  shrinking 
one,  and  so  to  lend  her  courage  he  sang  the  croon 
ing  native  love-song  that  runs  somewhat  like  this: 

"Bosom,  here  is  love  for  you, 

O  bosom,  cool  as  night! 
How  you  refresh  me  as  with  dew, 
Your  coolness  gives  delight! 

"Rain  is  cold  upon  the  hill 
And  water  in  the  pool; 
But,  oh,  my  heart  is  yearning  still 
For  you,  O  bosom  cool! " 

"  There  is  a  night  thistle  blooming  up  the  ravine," 


74         WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

he  said,  "that  looks  just  like  the  candle-tree  you 
lighted  in  the  church  last  month.  Do  you  remember, 
Hokoolele?  When  I  peeped  through  the  window  and 
you  were  afraid  the  folk  would  see  me?  Ho-ho! 
Afraid  the  '  Klistian '  folk  would  see  their  bad  brother 
outside?  But  this  is  much  prettier.  .  .  .  Come  and  see 
if  you  can  light  the  thistle." 

She  kept  close  to  the  shadow. 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  afraid  again  ? "  he  asked. 
"  There  is  no  one  on  the  whole  mountain  to-night. 
They  are  all  down  by  the  chapel  staring  at  the  new 
lamps  and  parading  themselves  along  the  path.  Two 
great  big  fireflies  by  the  path!  You  should  see  how 
they  shine  through  the  trees."  .  .  . 

He  seated  himself  on  the  veranda  steps  and  laughed 
up  over  the  shoulder  at  her  —  laughter  like  a  boy's 
or  like  a  pagan  god's. 

It  was  that  had  tinged  and  made  so  live  and  subtle 
the  fascination  he  exercised  upon  her;  his  unspoiled 
innocence,  his  utter,  wild  simplicity  that  struck  back 
to  the  ultimate  sources.  She  could  never  have  felt 
so  toward  any  of  the  mission  converts,  with  their 
woolen  shirts  and  their  shoes  of  ceremony,  their 
hymns  and  glib,  half-comprehended  texts;  with  the 
fumbling  thumb-marks  of  civilization  on  their  souls. 
Motauri  had  never  submitted  to  the  first  term  of  the 
formula.  Motauri  followed  the  old  first  cult  of  sea 
and  sun,  of  whispering  tree  and  budding  flower.  He 
was  the  man  from  the  beginning  of  things,  from  be 
fore  Eden;  and  she  who  carried  in  her  starved  heart 
the  hunger  of  the  first  woman  —  she  loved  him. 

She  sank  to  her  knees  on  the  veranda  edge  above 
him  there  and  leaned  forward  with  clasped  hands  to 
see  the  soft  glow  in  his  deep-lashed  eyes,  the  glint 
of  his  even  teeth;  to  catch  the  sweet  breath  of  jas 
mine  that  always  clung  about  him. 

"  Motauri  — "  she  said,  in  the  liquid  tongue  that 


THE  PASSION- VINE  75 

was  as  easy  to  her  as  her  own,  "  I  am  afraid.  Oh, 
I  am  —  I  am  afraid !  " 

"What  should  you  fear?  I  have  promised  noth 
ing  shall  hurt  you.  The  jungle  is  my  friend." 

"  It  is  not  that.  I  fear  my  father,  Motauri  —  and 
—  and  that  man  —  Gregson." 

She  could  see  his  smile  fade  in  the  moonlight.  "  The 
trader?"  he  said.  "Very  many  fear  him.  But  he  is 
only  a  cheat  and  an  oppressor  of  poor  people  with 
things  to  sell  and  to  buy.  What  has  the  trader  to 
do  with  you  ?  " 

"  He  knows  —  I  am  sure  he  knows  about  us,"  she 
breathed.  "  He  knows.  Even  now  he  may  be  watch- 
ing-!" 

Hurriedly  she  told  him  of  the  day's  strange  de 
velopment,  of  her  father's  sudden  friendship  with  the 
powerful  white  man  and  Gregson's  crafty,  malicious 
hints. 

"I  do  not  know  what  he  means  to  do,  but  for  you 
and  for  me  this  is  the  end,  Motauri,"  she  said,  wist 
fully.  "  I  dare  not  see  you  any  more  —  I  would  not 
dare.  It  is  not  permitted,  and  I  am  frightened  to 
think  what  might  happen  to  you.  You  must  go 
away  quickly."  Her  timid  fingers  rested  on  his  close, 
wavy  locks,  all  crisped  and  scented  with  the  juice 
of  the  wild  orange.  "  It  is  finished,  Motauri,"  she 
sighed.  "  This  is  the  end." 

But  Motauri's  mouth  had  set,  his  boyish  brows 
had  coiled  and  firmed,  and  his  glance  was  bright. 
He  drew  closer  to  her  with  a  lithe  movement. 

"This  is  the  end?"  he  echoed.  "Then  I  know 
how.  White  star  of  the  night  —  listen  to  me  now, 
for  I  have  seen  how  it  must  end.  Yes  —  I  have 
known  this  would  come.  .  .  . 

"  Here  in  Wailoa  you  behold  me  one  apart,  because 
I  do  not  seek  to  do  as  the  white  men,  or  kneel  in 


76         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

their  temple,  or  make  empty  outcry  to  their  gods. 
Here  is  not  my  rightful  home.  But  around  the  coast, 
two  hours'  journey,  is  the  little  bay  of  Huapu  where 
dwell  some  of  my  people  who  have  never  given  up 
their  own  customs,  and  there  I  am  truly  a  high  chief, 
for  my  fathers  used  to  rule  over  all  the  bays.  Sweet 
are  the  young  cocoanuts  of  Huapu,  and  the  mangoes 
and  the  wild  plantains  of  the  hillside  —  sweet  and 
mellow.  There  in  the  woods  the  moss  grows  deep 
and  soft  for  a  couch,  and  for  shelter  are  the  broad 
leaves  —  for  hearth  the  great  prostrate  tree  trunk 
that  holds  fire  always  in  its  heart.  Like  mine  — 
white  star  —  like  mine! 

"  Once  I  would  not  have  ventured,  Hokoolele.  Once 
I  looked  at  you  from  afar,  dreaming  only  of  you  as 
one  who  had  dropped  from  the  sky  —  so  different 
from  my  kind.  But  you  are  my  life  and  the  light 
of  my  life,  and  I  have  touched  you  and  found  you 
real  —  strange  and  beautiful,  but  real  — 

"Bosom,  here  is  love  for  you, 
O  bosom,  cool  as  night!  " 

He  caught  her  hands  in  both  of  his. 

"  Come  with  me  now,  for  always,  I  will  take  you 
away  to  the  groves  of  Huapu.  There  we  will  laugh 
and  dance  and  sing  all  the  day  through,  and  I  will 
bring  you  water  in  a  fern-leaf  and  weave  you  flower 
chains  and  climb  to  pluck  you  the  rarest  fruits,  and 
build  a  nest  to  keep  you  safe.  There  you  shall  never 
be  sad  any  more,  or  wearied,  or  lonely  —  or  afraid. 
Because  I  will  be  with  you  always,  always  —  Hokoo 
lele  !  Come  with  me  to-night !  ".  .  . 

Then  the  maiden  soul  of  Miss  Matilda  was  torn 
like  a  slender,  upright  palm  in  the  tropic  hurricane, 
for  a  lover's  arm  was  about  her  waist  and  a  lover's 
importunate  breath  against  her  cheek,  and  these 


THE  PASSION-VINE  77 

things  were  happening  to  her  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life. 

"  No  —  no,  Motauri !  "  She  struggled  inexpertly, 
fluttering  at  his  touch,  bathed  in  one  swift  flush. 
"  My  father  — !  "  she  gasped. 

"What  does  it  matter?  Your  father  shall  marry 
us  any  way  he  pleases  —  afterward.  But  we  will 
live  in  Huapu  forever ! " 

And  with  a  sudden  dizzied  weakening  she  saw  that 
this  was  true  and  that  she  had  treasured  the  know 
ledge  for  this  very  moment.  Her  father  would  mar 
ry  them.  He  would  marry  them  as  he  married  Jere 
miah's  Loo  and  the  shell-buyer  — "  and  only  too 
thankful."  Curious  that  the  conventional  fact  should 
have  pleaded  with  the  night's  spiced  fragrance,  with 
the  bland  weight  of  the  island  zephyr  on  her  eyelids, 
with  the  vibrant  contact  of  young  flesh  and  the  an 
swering  madness  in  her  veins.  Curious,  too,  that 
her  dread  and  loathing  of  the  man  Gregson  should 
have  urged  her  the  same  way.  But  so  they  did, 
reason  fusing  with  desire  like  spray  with  wind,  and 
all  conspiring  to  loose  her  from,  the  firm  hold  of 
habit  and  training. 

"  We  can  go  now  —  this  minute,"  Motauri  was 
whispering.  "  There  are  boats  to  be  had  below  on 
the  beach.  We  can  reach  Huapu  before  morning. 
None  shall  see  us  go." 

"  You  forget  the  path  —  the  people  — "  She  could 
hardly  frame  the  words  with  her  lips. 

"  And  Gregson's  lights  on  the  chapel  —  ! " 

But  Motauri  laughed  low  for  love  and  pride. 

"  I  do  not  use  a  path.  Am  I  a  village-dweller 
to  need  steps  to  my  feet?  The  mountain  is  path 
enough  for  me.  That  way!  .  .  .  Straight  down  to 
the  shore." 

"  By   the   ravine  ? "   she   cried   stricken.     "  Impos- 


78         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

sible!    It  has  never  been  done.     No  one  can  climb 
down  there.     It  is  death!" 

"  It  is  life !  "  With  the  word  he  swept  her  up  like 
a  wisp  of  a  thing  in  his  strong  arms.  "  And  also  I 
am  not  '  no  one,'  but  your  captor,  Hokoolele.  I  have 
caught  my  star  from  the  sky.  See  —  thus  is  it 
done!".  .  . 

Such  was  the  elopement  of  Miss  Matilda,  when 
she  left  her  father's  house  and  her  father's  faith 
in  very  much  the  same  manner  as  her  remote  mater 
nal  ancestor  went  about  the  same  sort  of  affair  some 
where  back  in  the  Stone  Age.  And  in  truth  Miss 
Matilda  was  living  the  Stone  Age  for  the  half  hour 
it  took  Motauri  to  get  them  both  down  the  untracked 
mountain  side.  How  they  managed  she  never  after 
ward  knew.  Not  that  she  slept,  or  fainted,  or  in 
dulged  in  any  twentieth  century  tantrum.  But  it  was 
all  too  tense  to  hold. 

Of  that  descent  she  retained  chiefly  a  memory  of 
the  stream  and  its  voices,  now  low  and  urgent,  now 
babbling  and  chuckling  in  her  ear.  At  times  they 
groped  through  its  luminous  mists,  again  waded  from 
stone  to  stone  in  the  current  or  lowered  themselves 
by  its  brink  among  the  tangled  roots.  It  hurried 
them,  hid  them,  showed  them  the  way,  set  the  high 
pulse  for  their  hearts  and  the  pace  for  their  purpose 
like  an  exultant  accomplice.  Nor  did  Miss  Matilda 
shrink  from  its  ardor. 

Once  embarked,  she  had  no  further  fear.  Unguessed 
forces  awoke  in  her.  With  the  hands  that  had 
never  handled  anything  rougher  than  crewel-work 
she  chose  her  grip  along  the  tough  ladder  of  looped 
lianas.  As  confidently  as  a  creature  of  the  wild  she 
sprang  across  a  gulf,  or  threw  herself  to  the  cliff,  or 
slipped  to  the  man's  waiting  clasp  on  the  next  lower 
ledge.  Massed  shadows,  shifting-  patches  of  moon- 


THE  PASSION- VINE  79 

light,  the  glimpsed  abyss  and  silvered  sea  far  down 
—  these  held  no  terrors.  Sharp  danger  and  quick 
recovery,  sliding  moss  and  rasping  rock,  the  clutch 
of  thorn  and  creeper  —  all  the  rude  intricacies  of 
wet  earth  and  teeming  jungle  seemed  things  ac 
cepted  and  accessory.  She  was  tinglingly  alive,  glo 
riously  alert.  This  was  her  wonderful  night,  the 
great  adventure  that  somehow  fulfilled  a  profound 
expectancy  of  her  being. 

Only  at  the  chute  she  could  not  hope  to  aid.  Mo- 
tauri  meant  to  find  a  certain  slanted  fault  beyond  the 
last  break  that  offered  like  a  shelf.  If  they  could 
reach  that,  they  might  clamber  under  the  very  spout 
of  the  hissing  outfall,  drenched  but  comparatively 
safe,  for  the  rest  was  no  more  than  a  scrubby  stair 
case  that  bore  away  leftward  to  the  gentler  slopes 
of  the  valley  and  the  beach  below.  He  told  her  his 
plan,  then  swung  her  up  again  and  took  the  whole 
task  to  himself,  easing  inch  by  inch  down  the  narrow 
channel.  The  water  boiled  and  raved  about  his 
knees;  she  could  see  the  streak  of  its  solid  flood 
ahead,  where  it  straightened  for  a  last  rush,  where 
the  least  misstep  must  dash  them  down  the  glis 
tening  runaway  into  space. 

But  she  would  not  look  ahead.  She  looked  at  the 
dim,  adorable  face  so  near  her  own,  at  the  carven 
lip,  the  quivering,  arched  nostril,  the  fine,  proud 
carriage  and  dauntless  glance  of  her  godling.  The 
flash  of  their  eyes  met  sidelong.  With  a  deep-drawn 
sigh  of  content  she  surrendered  herself  to  him,  drew 
her  arms  about  his  neck  until  she  was  pillowed  on 
his  smooth  shoulder.  .  .  . 

"  Strange  there  should  be  no  boats  at  this  end," 
said  Motauri. 

They  paused  by  the  outskirts  of  the  village  and 
peered  toward  its  clustered,  ruddy  firelights  flicker 
ing  out  upon  the  shore.  There  was  no  one  abroad 


80         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

on  that  empty,  nebulous  expanse,  but  they  could 
hear  stir  and  laughter  among  the  huts  and  the  shrill 
wailing  of  a  child. 

"  It  is  still  too  early,"  he  murmured,  and  led  her 
back  to  the  cover  of  a  thicket. 

Miss  Matilda  was  aware  of  a  slackening  from  the 
keen  excitement  and  zested  peril  of  their  escape. 
She  had  a  vague  feeling  that  the  boat  should  have 
been  ready  to  waft  them  miraculously  over  star-lit 
seas. 

"How  are  you  going  to  get  one?"  she  asked. 

"  Any  of  these  people  would  lend  me  a  dugout, 
but  I  thought  merely  to  take  the  first  at  hand." 

"  I  see  none." 

"  No  —  they  are  gone.  Perhaps  the  men  are  fish 
ing  on  the  reef  to-night.  .  .  .  But  that  would  be 
strange  too,"  he  added,  perplexed. 

Somehow  the  delay,  the  uncertainty,  began  to 
weigh  upon  her  like  an  affront.  She  missed  their 
wild  communion,  the  high,  buoying  sense  of  ro 
mance  and  emprise  and  impossibilities  trampled  under 
foot.  She  missed  the  single  complicity  of  the  stream 
and  its  turbulent  heartening.  Here  were  voices  too, 
but  these  were  harsh  and  displeasing,  common 
human  voices.  An  odor  of  cookery  and  unclean 
hearths  stole  greasily  down  in  the  air.  The  fretful 
child  began  screaming  again  and  went  suddenly  sil 
ent  at  a  brusque  clap.  Somebody  fell  to  quarreling 
in  a  muttered  monotone. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ? "  she  demanded. 

"  It  will  be  better  if  I  go  search." 

"  You  will  not  leave  me  — !  " 

"  Only  for  a  time.  I  must  find  someone  who  has 
a  boat  and  borrow  it.  If  there  are  no  others,  the 
trader  will  lend  me  his." 

"  Gregson  —  ?  " 


THE  PASSION-VINE  81 

"  He  cannot  know  what  I  want  of  it." 

"  Motauri  — "  she  cried,  appalled,  "  keep  away  from 
that  man !  " 

"  I  have  used  his  boat  before,"  he  soothed.  "  It 
will  be  all  right.  And  we  must  —  we  must  have  a 
boat.  Remember  where  we  are."  .  .  . 

She  had  caught  his  wrist  unwittingly,  but  now  she 
released  it.  They  stood  so  for  a  moment.  She  was 
remembering. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said,  subdued. 

"  You  will  be  safe  here,"  he  assured  her.  "  Stay 
close  in  the  brush.  Nobody  passes  this  last  house 
And  when  I  come  I  will  sing  a  little,  very  quietly,  to 
let  you  know.  Good-bye,  Hokoolele  —  !  " 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  with  a  catch  at  her  throat 
and  a  strange  foreboding. 

Abruptly  he  had  vanished.  .  .  . 

How  long  Miss  Matilda  crouched  in  her  thicket  by 
the  beach  of  Wailoa  she  could  not  have  told.  It 
seemed  an  eternity.  The  night  clouded  down,  even 
the  stars  were  veiled.  An  on-shore  breeze  whined 
forlornly  across  the  sands.  Her  fever  had  passed. 
She  was  damp,  bedraggled,  bruised  and  aching,  soiled 
with  mud.  The  wind  sought  her  out,  cut  through 
her  limp  garments.  .  .  .  She  waited,  shivering. 

She  was  very  much  alone.  She  felt  helpless  be 
yond  anything  she  had  ever  experienced,  as  if  the 
props  of  life  were  fallen  away.  And  so  they  were, 
for  those  she  had  known  she  had  thrust  behind  and 
Motauri's  magic  no  longer  sustained  her.  Worse 
than  all  was  the  pressure  gathering  in  her  mind,  a 
tide  of  doubt  that  she  had  to  deny,  like  the  rising  fill 
in  a  lock.  She  dared  not  let  herself  think.  Still  no 
Motauri. 

Benumbed,  exhausted,  sunk  in  hebetude,  she  wait 
ed  until  she  could  wait  no  more,  until  intolerable 
suspense  drove  her  blindly.  She  crept  through  the 


82         WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

bush  and  so  came  suddenly  to  the  edge  of  a  clear 
ing  by  a  native  hut  —  to  see  what  it  was  written 
she  should  see  at  that  particular  moment.  .  .  . 

Before  the  door  burned  a  blink  of  fire  that  re 
vealed  the  dwelling  and  its  tattered  alcove  of  sewn 
leaves,  as  if  the  scene  had  been  set  with  footlights. 
It  was  a  very  simple  little  domestic  scene.  On  a  fibre 
mat  sprawled  a  woman.  She  might  have  been  young, 
but  she  was  old  in  the  native  way,  flabby,  coarse 
grained,  with  sagging  wrinkles,  with  lusterless  hair 
streaming  about  her  face.  A  ragged,  sleeveless 
wrapper  rendered  her  precarious  service,  bulging 
with  flesh.  At  her  side  squatted  a  youngster,  an  imp 
of  seven  it  might  be,  who  noisily  chewed  a  stick  of 
sugarcane  and  spat  wide  the  pith.  The  woman  kept 
one  hand  free  to  admonish  him  —  by  his  beady  eye 
he  required  it  —  and  to  tend  a  simmering  pot.  With 
the  other,  tranquilly,  she  nursed  a  naked  babe. 

There  was  no  reticence  about  that  firelight,  no 
possible  illusion  —  and  certainly  no  romance.  In 
grim  fidelity  it  threw  up  each  bald  detail,  the  cheer 
ful  dirt  and  squalor,  the  easy  poverty,  the  clutter  — 
the  plain,  animal,  every-day  facts  of  a  savage  home. 
It  touched  the  bronze  skins  with  splashes  of  copper, 
shone  in  the  woman's  vacant,  bovine  stare  and 
gleamed  along  the  generous  swell  of  her  breast.  And 
just  there  it  made  a  wholly  candid  display  of  the 
central  figure  in  this  pantomime  —  the  brown  babe. 
Not  so  brown  as  he  would  be  some  day,  indeed  quite 
softly  tinted,  but  unmistakably  Polynesian.  A  most 
elemental  mite  of  humanity.  A  most  eloquent  inter 
preter  of  primordial  delights.  A  fat  little  rascal, 
with  a  bobbing  fuzzy  poll  and  squirming  limbs.  And 
hungry  —  so  very  frankly,  so  very  boisterously 
hungry  — ! 

Miss  Matilda  went  away  from  that  place. 


THE  PASSION- VINE  83 

She  had  a  confused  idea  of  flight,  but  her  feet  were 
rebellious,  and  before  she  had  taken  twenty  steps 
she  was  lost.  Without  direction,  groping  in  the 
darkness,  even  then  by  some  intuition  she  kept  to  the 
trees  and  the  undergrowth  for  hiding.  That  was 
her  only  effective  impulse  —  to  hide.  She  could  not 
go  on.  Under  heaven  there  was  no  going  back.  Peo 
ple  were  awake  all  about  her  in  the  huts.  More  peo 
ple  would  be  strolling  and  skylarking  along  the 
chapel  path,  supposing  she  could  have  found  it.  She 
had  the  sole,  miserable  craving  that  the  earth  might 
open  to  receive  her. 

And  thus  it  was  chance  alone  that  guided  her 
course  through  the  fringe  of  the  village,  through 
garden  and  sand  strip,  and  that  brought  her  finally, 
all  unseen,  to  the  wall  of  a  large  house,  to  a  post,  to 
a  slatted  gallery  aglow  inside  with  lamps,  and  to 
her  second  discovery.  .  .  . 

"  Curse  your  black  soul ! "  a  voice  was  saying,  with 
heavy,  slow  brutality,  "  when  I  tell  you  to  drink  — 
you  drink!  D'y'  hear?" 

"  No  can  do,  Mahster,"  came  the  faltering  res 
ponse,  in  the  broken  beche  de  mer  that  is  the  token 
of  the  white  man's  domination  in  the  islands.  "  That 
fella  rum  taboo  'long  me  altogether." 

"What  do  I  care  for  your  taboo?    Drink!" 

Fell  an  interval  of  silence. 

"  Drink  again  —  drink  hearty !  " 

Captain  Hull  Gregson  sat  leaning  forward  by  the 
side  of  his  living-room  table,  shoving  down  the 
length  of  it  a  glass  that  brimmed  and  sparkled  redly. 
On  his  knee,  in  a  fist  like  a  ham,  he  balanced  a  black 
bottle.  His  jutted  jaw  took  a  line  with  the  outthrust 
arm,  with  the  lowering  brow,  as  if  the  whole  implac 
able  force  and  will  of  the  man  were  so  projected. 

And  at  the  end,  facing  him,  stood  Motauri  —  a  dif 
ferent,  a  sadly  different  Motauri.  A  Motauri  not  in 


84         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

the  least  the  joyous  woodland  faun  in  his  attitude 
now.  His  proud  crest  was  lowered,  stripped  of  its 
wreath;  his  magnificent  muscles  drooped.  He  stood 
humbly,  with  chest  collapsed,  on  shuffling  feet,  as 
became  an  inferior.  He  drew  the  back  of  his  hand 
across  his  lips  and  eyed  the  white  man  furtively.  .  .  . 

"  That's  better,"  grunted  Gregson,  and  leaned  back 
to  set  the  bottle  on  the  table  amid  a  litter  of  odds 
and  ends,  books,  papers,  a  revolver,  a  tarred  tiller- 
rope  with  a  roseknot.  "  Perhaps  that'll  loosen  your 
tongue.  First  time  I  ever  seen  your  breed  hold  off 
the  stuff.  But  then,  you're  one  of  these  independent 
lads,  ain't  you?  Old  chief  stock,  you  call  yourself. 
Plenty  wild  Kanaka,  you.  .  .  .  Plenty  bold,  bad  fella 
you  —  hey  ?  " 

"  No,   Mahrster,"   said   Motauri,   deprecating. 

Gregson  regarded  him  with  a  hard  smile. 

"And  now  you're  going  to  tell  me  why  you  tried 
to  sneak  a  boat  at  this  hour  o'  night." 

"  Me  like'm  go  fish,"  said  Motauri. 

"  You've  said  that  a  dozen  times,  and  it's  no  bet 
ter.  It  don't  pass.  Go  fish?  Go  soak  your  black 
head!  What  are  you  up  to,  hey?  Come  now  —  tell." 

Motauri  made  no  answer,  and  the  other  controlled 
himself.  Behind  his  dark  mask  the  big  trader  was 
under  the  empire  of  some  powerful  emotion.  His 
hands  clenched  and  opened  again,  trembling  a  little. 
His  face  shone  like  wet  leather.  But  it  was  in  a  tone 
oddly  detached,  musing,  that  he  went  on. 

"  You're  smart.  I  don't  say  a  Kanaka  can't  be 
smart  when  he  wants  to  hide  anything.  He  can.  I 
ain't  figgered  you  yet.  And  that's  a  mighty  healthy 
thing  for  you,  my  boy,  d'y'  see?  Because,  if  I  could 
once  make  sure  it  was  you  I  saw  slipping  away  by 
the  chapel  hedge  two  nights  ago,  I'd  — "  A  purplish 
haze  suffused  his  cheek.  "  I'd  dig  the  heart  out  of 
your  carcass  with  my  two  hands,"  he  ended,  very 


THE  PASSION- VINE  85 

quietly,  and  hit  the  table  so  that  it  jumped.  "Was 
it  ?  "  he  roared. 

"  No-o,  Mahrster,"  said  Motauri. 

"  You  lie  —  blast  you  —  it  was !  " 

"No,  Mahrster." 

"  Was  it  you  that's  been  hanging  around  that  white 
fella  girl  b'long  missionary  —  that's  dared  lift  your 
dog's  eyes  to  her  ?  " 

He  crouched  like  a  beast,  ferine  —  all  the  obscure 
and  diabolic  passion  of  him  ready  to  spring. 

"  No,  Mahrster." 

Gregson  glared  at  him  steadily. 

"What  did  you  want  of  that  boat?" 

"  Me  like'm  go  fish,"  said  Motauri. 

The  trader  sat  back  again,  plying  his  billowy  silk 
handkerchief. 

"  The  trouble  with  me  — "  he  said,  reflectively,  "  I 
can't  believe  my  own  eyes;  that's  the  trouble  with 
me.  And  how  could  I  believe  'em?"  he  inquired,  with 
almost  a  plaintive  note.  "  Such  things  don't  happen. 
They  can't.  Why  —  what  kind  of  a  man  are  you? 
Black,  I  believe  —  leastways  brown.  And  she  — 
she — • 

"  A  Kanaka.  If  not  you,  then  another.  A  Kan 
aka  !  To  know  her,  be  near  her  —  touch  her  —  play 
all  manner  of  pretty,  cuddlin'  tricks  around  her  — 
to  —  to  kiss  her,  maybe !  To  crush  her  up  in  his 
arms  — ! "  The  wards  came  away  from  him  hot  and 
slow,  from  under  half-shut  eyes.  "  And  I've  sat  here 
behind  them  slats  and  watched  her  go  by  and  wished 
I  might  crawl  where  her  little  feet  could  walk  on 
me.  .  .  . 

"  How  should  one  of  your  sort  have  the  cursed 
impudence  to  think  of  such  things?  What  have  you 
got  to  do  with  heaven?  Could  you  see  anything  in 
that  blind-like  look  sideways  —  and  hair  so  smooth 
over  the  ear?  Do  you  know  that  level  eyebrows  and 


86         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

a  fullish  underlip  mean  —  hey?    Do  you?    A  lip  like 

a  drop  of  blood  — 

"What  did  you  want  that  boat  for?"  he  cried,  in 
a  terrible  voice. 

"  Me  like'm  go  fish,"  said  Motauri. 

"  I  tell  you  one  thing,  you  don't  leave  here  till  I'm 
sure.  There's  something  rotten  going  on.  I  smell  it. 
I'm  on  the  track,  and  I'll  never  give  up  —  never  give 
up.  Right  now  I've  got  the  mission  path  watched 
by  my  own  men.  Nobody  gets  up  or  down  without 
my  knowing  it  —  to-night  or  ever.  D'y'  mind  "that, 
before  I  screw  the  thumbs  off  you  to  make  you 
talk?" 

It  was  then  that  he  heard  the  slight,  sobbing  breath 
in  his  gallery,  the  rattle  of  his  slatter  door  that 
brought  him  to  his  feet  and  bounding  across  the 
room.  Reaching  into  the  darkness  he  dragged  out 
the  eaves-dropper  —  whose  poor  knees  had  simply 
given  like  paper,  whose  desperate  effort  to  save  her 
self  had  thrown  her  against  the  jamb  and  betrayed 
her — Miss  Matilda.  .  .  . 

«  You  — !  "  said  Gregson.     "  You  — !  " 

He  dropped  her  by  the  threshold  and  started 
away  from  her  with  spread  fingers  and  fallen  jaw. 
For  a  time  only  the  sound  of  his  labored  breathing 
filled  the  silence  and  the  three  stayed  so,  the  woman 
collapsed  against  a  chair,  Motauri  swaying  and  wink 
ing  stupidly  and  Gregson,  struck  dumb,  incredulous, 
empurpled  at  first  and  then  slowly  paling.  Without 
a  word  he  spun  on  his  heel,  returned  to  the  table 
and  poured  himself  a  drink  and  tossed  it  off. 

"  Respectability !  "  he  said,  in  the  tone  of  conversa 
tion,  caught  his  collar  and  ripped  it  loose.  "  By 
Heaven ! "  he  cried,  and  wrung  his  great  hands. 
"What  am  I  going  to  do  now?  What  am  I  going 
to  do?" 


THE  PASSION-VINE  87 

His  wandering-  glance  lighted  on  the  rope's  end  on 
the  table-top,  and  he  coiled  it  in  his  hand.  He  began 
to  walk  to  and  fro  before  them.  His  face  was  ghastly, 
his  bloodshot  blue  eyes  were  set  like  jewels.  Now  he 
stopped  before  Motauri  and  looked  him  up  and  down 
curiously.  Laughter  took  him  like  a  hiccup :  laughter 
not  good  to  hear :  but  he  left  off  as  quickly.  He  came 
back  and  stood  over  the  cowering  figure  on  the  floor. 

"  And  you're  the  thing  that  was  too  good  for  me ! " 

He  let  his  gaze  possess  her  deliberately,  noting 
each  stain  and  smirch,  her  disordered  dress  and  loos 
ened  hair,  and  pitiful,  staring  face. 

"  Well,  you're  not  too  good  now,"  he  said,  wetting 
his  lips.  "No  —  you're  none  too  good!  You'll 
marry  me  to-morrow  —  and  you'll  crawl  on  your 
knees  to  have  me.  And  that  father  of  yours  —  that 
sniveling  old  hypocrite  —  he'll  crawl  to  make  the 
lines,  if  I  choose.  .  .  . 

"  When  I  think  how  I've  dreamed  of  you !  How 
I've  lived  through  days  and  nights  of  perdition,  want 
ing  you  —  you  sweet,  cold,  white  saint  you  —  and  a 
devil  after  all ! 

"To  think  how  I've  schemed  and  trembled  and 
trembled  and  waited,  afraid  to  say  a  word  or  make  a 
move  lest  I'd  queer  any  chance.  Me  —  a  common 
trader  with  a  native  wife  that  wouldn't  die.  And 
you  up  there  on  the  hill  so  prim  and  fine.  A  mission 
ary's  daughter.  Too  respectable  to  touch!  And  what 
are  you  now  —  that's  been  out  in  the  night  —  ?  " 

He  whirled  around  and  the  maddened,  jealous  rage 
and  hate  rose  up  in  his  soul  like  scum  on  a  dark 
pool. 

"  With  a  nigger !  "  he  screamed. 

All  his  strength  was  behind  the  tiller-rope.  It 
slashed  Motauri  over  the  face  so  that  the  red  welt 
seemed  to  spurt.  As  he  lifted  his  arm  to  repeat,  with 
a  strangled  cry  Motauri  leapt  upon  him  and  the  rest 


88         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

was  fury.  They  fought  baresark,  interlocked  and 
silent,  spinning  from  side  to  side  of  the  room.  Greg- 
son  had  the  weight  and  the  thews  and  the  cunning. 
He  kept  the  other's  clutch  away  from  his  throat  and 
maneuvred  toward  the  table.  As  they  reeled  against 
it,  he  put  forth  a  mighty  effort,  tore  off  Motauri  and 
hurled  him  away  for  an  instant  —  long  enough  to 
grab  the  revolver. 

"Nigger  —  I  said!" 

But  in  the  very  gasp  he  choked.  The  weapon 
raised  for  a  chopping,  pointblank  shot,  dropped  over 
his  shoulder.  He  rocked,  pressing  at  his  heart, 
frowned  heavily  once,  and  fell  crashing  forward.  .  .  . 

"  Hokoolele !    Hokoolele  —  !  Up  and  make  haste !" 

Miss  Matilda  lifted  her  face  from  her  hands. 

"  Let  us  hurry  while  there  is  time,"  urged  Motauri, 
thickly.  "  No  one  has  seen  or  heard  us  yet.  His 
boat-shed  is  open.  We  are  safe !  " 

"  Go  away  from  me ! "  said  Miss  Matilda. 

"What  do  you  say?"  he  stammered.  "Come. 
Nobody  will  stop  us.  Nobody  will  know  anything 
about  us — " 

She  fended  him  off  with  a  gesture  of  instinctive 
loathing.  .  .  . 

"  Please  go  — " 

"But  you  cannot  stay  here!  It  would  be  a  very 
evil  thing  for  you  if  you  were  found  in  this  house.  It 
must  never  be  known  you  were  here  at  all." 

"  Don't  touch  me !  "  That  seemed  the  only  import 
ant  thing. 

"  Hokoolele  —  what  of  the  golden  chain  of  love 
between  us?  Come  with  me  now!" 

"I  was  mad.     I  was  blind.     It  is  judgment!" 

He  regarded  her  sorrowfully,  but  sternly  too. 

"  You  mean  you  do  not  want  me  any  more  ?  " 


THE  PASSION-VINE  89 

"No  —  ! "  she  moaned,  in  the  stupor  of  horror 
and  despair.  And  then  the  brown  man,  the  native, 
vhose  blood  had  been  roused  by  every  agency  that 
can  stir  wild  blood  to  frenzy  —  by  love  and  shame, 
by  drink,  by  battle  and  triumph  —  then  Motauri,  the 
high  chief,  struck  unerringly  to  the  heart  of  the  mat 
ter  and  made  his  swift  decision  by  his  own  primitive 
lights.  Recovering  her  shawl  he  wrapped  it  about 
her  tightly,  caught  her  up  once  more  willy-nilly  in 
his  arms  and  bore  her  away  from  that  sinister  place 
by  force.  .  .  . 

She  was  lying  on  a  bench  in  the  veranda  of  her 
father's  house  and  her  father  himself  was  calling  her 
name,  when  she  came  to  herself. 

"Matilda,  I'm  speaking  to  you!    Where  are  you?" 

He  came  through  the  window  of  her  room. 

"  Gracious  me !  —  have  you  been  sleeping  out 
there?" 

She  could  only  stare  at  ,him  and  down  at  the 
twisted  shawl  about  her,  for  it  seemed  it  must  be  so, 
she  had  only  been  sleeping  —  with  what  dreams! 

But  his  next  words  showed  her  the  truth. 

"  Matilda,  my  dear,"  he  quavered,  "  you  must  pre 
pare  yourself.  Be  brave.  Something  dreadful  has 
happened.  One  of  Captain  Gregson's  boys  has  just 
come  up  from  the  village  with  terrible  news.  The 
Captain  is  dead!  He  had  some  kind  of  a  stroke,  it 
seems  —  very  sudden  —  all  alone  at  the  time.  I  shall 
have  to  hurry  right  down.  And  at  this  hour  too, 
when  the  woods  are  so  damp !  What  a  loss,  what  a 
loss,  Matilda,  when  I  had  so  hoped  — !" 

He  left  her,  and  it  came  to  her  then  that  she  too 
had  hoped  and  that  she  too  had  lost.  The  mountain 
stream  was  singing  in  her  ears,  and  it  seemed 
threaded  with  mockery.  The  moonlight  came  filter 
ing  through  the  vine,  and  it  was  old  and  cold.  Her 
wonderful  night  was  over.  She  was  safe.  Her  life 


90         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

would  begin  again  where  she  had  dropped  it,  in  for 
mulated  routine,  and  nobody  would  ever  know  — 
unless  Motauri  — 

Some  curious  twinge,  half  fearful,  half  regretful, 
drove  her  to  peer  through  the  leaves  and  to  listen 
for  his  crooning  song. 

"Bosom,  here  is  love  for  you, 
O  bosom,  cool  as  night t" 

But  it  did  not  come.  She  was  to  listen  for  it  many 
times,  and  it  was  never  to  come.  Having  reached 
such  heights  and  depths  that  night,  having  achieved 
the  impossible  and  the  doubly  impossible,  going 
down  once  more  and  at  last  by  way  of  the  chute  and 
the  outfall.  For  Motauri  was  a  gentleman  of  sorts. 
But  perhaps,  because  he  was  also  a  pagan,  he  had 
been  at  some  pains  before  that  final  descent  to  en 
mesh  his  wrists  firmly  and  helplessly  in  a  knotted 
tendril  from  the  passion-vine. 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  HEAD 

THE  possessions  of  Christopher  Alexander  Pel 
lett  were  these :  his  name,  which  he  was  always 
careful  to  retain  intact;  a  suit  of  ducks,  no 
longer  intact,  in  which  he  lived  and  slept ;  a  continuous 
thirst  for  liquor,  and  a  set  of  red  whiskers.  Also  he 
had  a  friend.  Now,  no  man  can  gain  friendship,  even 
among  the  gentle  islands  of  Polynesia,  except  by  vir 
tue  of  some  quality  attaching  to  him.  Strength,  humor, 
villainy :  he  must  show  some  trait  by  which  the  friend 
can  catch  and  hold.  How,  then,  explain  the  loving 
devotion  lavished  upon  Christopher  Alexander  Pellett 
by  Karaki,  the  company  boat  boy?  This  was  the 
mystery  at  Fufuti. 

There  was  no  harm  in  Pellett.  He  never  quarreled. 
He  never  raised  his  fist.  Apparently  he  had  never 
learned  that  a  white  man's  foot,  though  it  wabble  ever 
so  much,  is  given  him  wherewith  to  kick  natives  out 
of  the  road.  He  never  even  cursed  any  one  except 
himself  and  the  Chinese  half-caste  who  sold  him 
brandy :  which  was  certainly  allowable  because  the 
brandy  was  very  bad. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  no  perceptible  good  in 
him.  He  had  long  lost  the  will  to  toil,  and  latterly 
even  the  skill  to  beg.  He  did  not  smile,  nor  dance, 
nor  exhibit  any  of  the  amiable  eccentricities  that  some 
times  recommend  the  drunken  to  a  certain  toleration. 
In  any  other  part  of  the  world  he  must  have  passed 
without  a  struggle.  But  some  chance  had  drifted  him 
to  the  beaches  where  life  is  as  easy  as  a  song  and  his 
particular  fate  had  given  him  a  friend.  And  so  he 

91 


92         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

persisted.  That  was  all.  He  persisted,  a  sodden  lump 
of  flesh  preserved  in  alcohol.  .  .  . 

Karaki,  his  friend,  was  a  heathen  from  Bougainville, 
where  some  people  are  smoked  and  others  eaten. 
Being  a  black,  a  Melanesian,  he  was  as  much  an  alien 
in  brown  Fufuti  as  any  white.  He  was  a  serious,  ef 
ficient  little  man  with  deeply  sunken  eyes,  a  great  mop 
of  kinky  hair,  and  a  complete  absence  of  expression. 
His  tastes  were  simple.  He  wore  a  red  cotton  kerchief 
belted  around  his  waist  and  a  brass  curtain  ring  sus 
pended  from  his  nose. 

Some  powerful  chief  in  his  home  island  had  sold 
Karaki  into  the  service  of  the  trading  company  for 
three  years,  annexing  his  salary  of  tobacco  and  beads 
in  advance.  When  the  time  should  be  accomplished, 
Karaki  would  be  shipped  back  to  Bougainville,  a  mat 
ter  of  some  eight  hundred  miles,  where  he  would  land 
no  richer  than  before  except  in  experience.  This  was 
the  custom.  Karaki  may  have  had  plans  of  his  own. 

It  is  seldom  that  one  of  the  black  races  of  the  Pacific 
shows  any  of  the  virtues  for  which  subject  popula 
tions  are  admired.  Fidelity  and  humility  can  be  ex 
acted  from  other  colors  between  tan  and  chocolate. 
But  the  black  remains  the  inscrutable  savage.  His 
secret  heart  is  his  own.  Hence  the  astonishment  of 
Fufuti,  which  knew  the  ways  of  black  recruits,  when 
Karaki  took  the  worthless  beachcomber  to  his  bosom. 

"  Hy,  you,  Johnny,"  called  Moy  Jack,  the  Chinese 
half-caste.  "  Better  you  come  catch  this  fella  mahster 
b'long  you.  He  fella  plenty  too  much  drunk,  galow." 

Karaki  left  the  shade  of  the  copra  shed  where  he 
had  been  waiting  an  hour  or  more  and  came  forward 
to  receive  the  sagging  bulk  that  was  thrust  out  of 
doors.  He  took  it  scientifically  by  wrist  and  armpit 
and  swung  toward  the  beach.  Moy  Jack  stood  on  his 
threshold  watching  with  cynic  interest. 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  HEAD  93 

"  Hy,  you,"  he  said ;  "  what  name  you  make  so  much 
bobeley  'long  that  fella  mahster?  S'pose  you  bling 
me  all  them  fella  pearl;  me  pay  you  one  dam  fella 
good  trade  —  my  word !  " 

It  annoyed  Moy  Jack  that  he  had  to  provide  the 
white  man  with  a  daily  drunk  in  exchange  for  the  little 
seed  pearls  with  which  Pellett  was  always  flush.  He 
knew  where  those  pearls  came  from.  Karaki  did  for 
bidden  diving  in  the  lagoon  to  get  them.  Moy  Jack 
made  a  good  thing  of  the  traffic,  but  he  could  have 
made  a  much  better  thing  by  trading  directly  with 
Karaki  for  a  few  sticks  of  tobacco. 

"  What  name  you  give  that  fella  mahster  all  them 
fella  pearl  ?  "  demanded  Moy  Jack  offensively.  "  He 
plenty  too  much  no  good,  galow.  Close  up  he  die 
altogether." 

Karaki  did  not  reply.  He  looked  at  Moy  Jack  once, 
and  the  half-caste  trailed  off  into  mutterings.  For 
an  instant  there  showed  a  strange  light  in  Karaki's 
dull  eyes,  like  the  flat,  green  flicker  of  a  turning  shark 
glimpsed  ten  fathoms  down.  .  .  . 

Karaki  bore  his  charge  down  the  beach  to  the  little 
thatched  shelter  of  pandanus  leaves  that  was  all  his 
home.  Tenderly  he  eased  Pellett  to  a  mat,  pillowed 
his  head,  bathed  him  with  cool  water,  brushed  the 
filth  from  his  hair  and  whiskers.  Pellet's  whiskers 
were  true  whiskers,  the  kind  that  sprout  like  the  bar 
bels  of  a  catfish,  and  they  were  a  glorious  coppery, 
sun-gilt  red.  Karaki  combed  them  out  with  a  sandal- 
wood  comb.  Later  he  sat  by  with  a  fan  and  kept  the 
flies  from  the  bloated  face  of  the  drunkard. 

It  was  a  little  past  midday  when  something  brought 
him  scurrying  into  the  open.  For  weeks  he  had  been 
studying  every  weather  sign.  He  knew  that  the  change 
was  due  when  the  southeast  trade  begins  to  harden 
through  this  flawed  belt  of  calms  and  cross  winds. 
And  now,  as  he  watched,  the  sharp  shadows  began  to 


94         WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

blur  along  the  sands  and  a  film  crept  over  the  face  of 
the  sun. 

All  Fufuti  was  asleep.  The  house  boys  snored  in 
the  back  veranda.  Under  his  netting  the  agent 
dreamed  happily  of  big  copra  shipments  and  bonuses. 
Moy  Jack  dozed  among  his  bottles.  Nobody  would 
have  been  mad  enough  to  stir  abroad  in  the  noon  hour 
of  repose :  nobody  but  Karaki,  the  untamed  black,  who 
cared  nothing  for  custom  nor  yet  for  dreams.  The 
light  pad  of  his  steps  was  lost  in  the  surf  drone  on 
the  barrier  reefs.  He  flitted  to  and  fro  like  a  wrath. 
And  while  Fufuti  slept  he  applied  himself  to  a  job  for 
which  he  had  never  been  hired.  .  .  . 

Karaki  had  long  ago  ascertained  two  vital  facts: 
where  the  key  to  the  trade  room  was  kept  and  where 
the  rifles  and  ammunition  were  hidden.  He  opened 
the  trade  room  and  selected  three  bolts  of  turkey  red 
cloth,  a  few  knives,  two  cases  of  tobacco,  and  a  fine 
small  ax.  There  was  much  else  he  might  have  taken 
as  well.  But  Karaki  was  a  man  of  simple  tastes,  and 
efficient. 

With  the  ax  he  next  forced  the  rifle  chest  and  re 
moved  therefrom  one  Winchester  and  a  big  box  of 
cartridges.  With  the  ax  again  he  broke  into  the  boat 
sheds.  Finally  with  the  ax  he  smashed  the  bottoms 
out  of  the  whaleboat  and  the  two  cutters  so  they  would 
be  of  no  use  to  any  one  for  many  days  to  come.  It 
was  really  a  very  handy  little  ax,  a  true  tomahawk, 
ground  to  a  shaving  edge.  Karaki  took  a  workman's 
pleasure  in  its  keen,  deep  strokes.  It  was  almost  his 
chief  prize. 

On  the  beach  lay  a  big  proa,  a  stout  outrigger  canoe 
of  the  kind  Karaki's  own  people  used  at  Bougainville, 
so  high  of  prow  and  stern  as  to  be  nearly  crescent- 
shaped.  The  northwest  monsoon  of  last  season  had 
washed  it  ashore  at  Fufuti,  and  Karaki  had  repaired 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  HEAD  95 

it,  by  the  agent's  own  order.  This  proa  he  now 
launched  in  the  lagoon,  and  aboard  of  it  he  stored  his 
loot. 

Of  supplies  he  had  to  make  a  hasty  selection.  He 
took  a  bag  of  rice  and  another  of  sweet  potatoes.  He 
took  as  many  coconuts  as  he  could  carry  in  a  net  in 
three  trips.  He  took  a  cask  of  water  and  a  box  of 
biscuit. 

And  here  happened  an  odd  thing. 

In  his  search  for  the  biscuit  he  came  upon  the 
agent's  private  store  of  liquor,  a  dozen  bottles  of  rare 
Irish  whisky.  He  glanced  at  them  and  passed  them 
by.  He  knew  what  the  stuff  was,  and  he  was  a  sav 
age,  a  black  man.  But  he  passed  it  by.  When  Moy 
Jack  heard  of  that  later  he  remembered  what  he  had 
seen  in  Karaki's  eyes  and  ventured  the  surprising  pre 
diction  that  Karaki  would  never  be  taken  alive. 

When  all  was  ready  Karaki  went  back  to  his  thatch 
and  aroused  Christopher  Alexander  Pellett. 

"  Hy,  mahster,  you  come  'long  me." 

Mr.  Pellett  sat  up  and  looked  at  him.  That  is  to 
say,  he  looked.  Whether  he  saw  anything  or  not 
belongs  among  the  obscurer  questions  of  psychopathy. 

"Too  late,"  said  Mr.  Pellett  profoundly.  "This 
shop  is  closed.  Copy  boy!  Give  all  those  damned 
loafers  good  night.  I'm  —  I'm  goin'  —  bed!" 

Whereupon  he  fell  flat  on  his  back. 

"  Wake  up,  mahster,"  insisted  Karaki,  shaking  him. 
"  You  too  much  strong  fella  sleep.  Hy-ah,  mahster ! 
Rum !  You  like'm  rum  ?  You  catch'm  rum  any  amount 
—  my  word !  Plenty  rum,  mahster !  " 

But  even  this  magic  call,  which  never  failed  to  rouse 
Pellett  from  his  couch  in  the  mornings,  fell  now  on 
deaf  ears.  Pellett  had  had  his  skinful,  and  the  fitness 
of  things  decreed  that  he  should  soak  the  clock 
around. 

Karaki  knelt  beside  him,  pried  him  up  until  he  could 


96         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

get  a  shoulder  under  his  middle,  and  lifted  him  like  a 
loose  bag  of  meal.  Pellett  weighed  one  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds;  Karaki  not  much  more  than  a  hundred. 
Yet  in  some  deft  coolie  fashion  of  his  own  the  little 
black  man  packed  his  burden,  with  the  feet  dragging 
behind,  clear  down  to  the  beach.  Moreover,  he  man 
aged  to  get  it  aboard  the  proa.  Pellett  was  half 
drowned  and  the  proa  half  swamped.  But  Karaki 
managed. 

No  man  saw  their  departure.  Fufuti  still  dreamed 
on.  Long  before  the  agent  awoke  to  wrath  and  ruin 
their  queer  crescent  craft  had  slipped  from  the  lagoon 
and  faded  away  on  the  wings  of  the  trade. 

That  first  day  Karaki  had  all  he  could  do  to  keep 
the  proa  running  straight  before  the  wind.  Big  smoky 
seas  came  piling  up  out  of  the  southeast  and  would 
have  piled  aboard  if  he  had  given  them  the  least 
chance.  He  was  only  a  heathen  who  did  not  know  a 
compass  from  a  degree  of  latitude.  But  his  forefathers 
used  to  people  these  waters  on  cockleshell  voyages  that 
make  the  venture  of  Columbus  look  like  a  ride  in  a 
ferry-boat.  Karaki  bailed  with  a  tin  pan  and  sailed 
with  a  mat  and  steered  with  a  paddle:  but  he  pro 
ceeded. 

Along  about  sunrise  Mr.  Pellett  stirred  in  the  bilge 
and  raised  a  peagreen  face.  He  took  one  bewildered 
glance  overside  at  the  seething  waste  and  collapsed 
with  a  groan.  After  a  decent  interval  he  tried  again, 
but  this  was  an  illusion  that  would  not  pass,  and  he 
twisted  around  to  Karaki  sitting  crouched  and  all 
aglisten  with  spray  in  the  stern. 

"  Rum !  "  he  demanded. 

Karaki  shook  his  head,  and  a  haunted  look  crept 
into  Pellett's  eyes. 

"  Take  —  take  away  all  that  stuff,"  he  begged  pa 
thetically,  pointing  at  the  ocean.  .  .  . 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  HEAD  97 

Thereafter  for  two  days  he  was  very,  very  sick,  and 
he  learned  how  a  small  boat  in  any  kind  of  a  sea  can 
move  forty-seven  different  ways  within  one  and  the 
same  minute.  This  is  no  trifling  bit  of  knowledge,  as 
those  who  have  acquired  it  can  tell.  It  was  nearly 
fatal  to  Pellett. 

On  the  third  day  he  awoke  with  a  mouth  and  a 
stomach  of  fumed  leather  and  a  great  weakness,  but 
otherwise  in  command  of  his  few  faculties.  The  gale 
had  fallen  and  Karaki  was  quietly  preparing  fresh 
coconuts.  Pellett  quaffed  two  before  he  thought  to 
miss  the  brandy  with  which  his  breakfast  draft  was 
always  laced.  But  when  he  remembered  the  milk 
choked  in  his  throat. 

"  Me  like'm  rum." 

"  No  got'm  rum." 

Pellett  looked  forward  and  aft  to  windward  and  to 
lee.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  horizon  in  sight,  but 
nothing  else.  For  the  first  time  he  was  aware  of  a 
strangeness  in  events. 

"  What  name  you  come  so  far  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  We  catch'm  one  big  fella  wind,"  explained  Karaki. 

Pellett  was  in  no  condition  to  question  his  state 
ment  nor  to  observe  from  the  careful  stocking  of  the 
proa  that  they  had  not  been  blown  to  sea  on  a  casual 
fishing  trip.  Pellett  had  other  things  to  think  of. 
Some  of  the  things  were  pink  and  others  purple  and 
others  were  striped  like  the  rainbow  in  most  surpris 
ing  designs,  and  all  were  highly  novel  and  interesting. 
They  came  thronging  out  of  the  vasty  deep  to  enter 
tain  Christopher  Alexander  Pellett.  Which  they  did. 

You  cannot  cut  off  alcohol  from  a  man  who  has  been 
continuously  pickled  for  two  years  without  results 
more  or  less  picturesque.  These  were  days  when  the 
proa  went  shouting  across  the  empty  southern  seas 
to  madrigal  and  choric  song.  Tied  hand  and  foot  and 
lashed  under  a  thwart,  Pellett  raved  in  the  numbers 


98         WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

of  his  innocent  youth.  It  would  have  been  singular 
hearing  had  there  been  any  to  hear,  but  there  was  only 
Karaki,  who  did  not  care  for  the  lesser  Cavalier  poets 
and  on  whom  whole  pages  of  "  Atalanta  in  Calydon  " 
were  quite  wasted.  Now  and  then  he  threw  a  dipper- 
ful  of  sea  water  over  the  white  man,  or  spread  a  mat 
to  keep  the  sun  from  him,  or  fed  him  coconut  milk 
by  force.  Karaki  was  a  poor  audience,  but  an  excel 
lent  nurse.  Also,  he  combed  Pellett's  whiskers  twice 
every  day. 

They  ran  into  calms.  But  the  trade  picked  them 
up  again  more  gently,  so  that  Karaki  ventured  to 
make  westing,  and  they  fled  under  skies  as  bright  as 
polished  brass. 

My  heart  is  within  me 

As  an  ash  in  the  fire ; 
Whosoever  hath  seen  me 

Without  lute,  without  lyre, 
Shall  sing  of  me  grievous  things, 
even  things  that  were  ill 
to  desire  — 

Thus  chanted  Christopher  Alexander  Pellett,  whose 
face  began  to  show  a  little  more  like  flesh  and  a  little 
less  like  rotten  kelp.  .  .  . 

Whenever  a  fair  chance  offered  Karaki  landed  on 
the  lee  of  some  one  of  the  tiny  islets  with  which  the 
Santa  Cruz  region  is  peppered  and  would  make  shift 
to  cook  rice  and  potatoes  in  the  tin  dipper.  This  was 
risky,  for  one  day  the  islet  proved  to  be  inhabited. 
Two  white  men  in  a  cutter  came  out  to  stop  them. 
Karaki  could  not  hide  his  resemblance  to  a  runaway 
nigger,  and  he  did  not  try  to.  But  when  the  cutter 
approached  within  fifty  yards  he  suddenly  announced 
himself  as  a  runaway  nigger  with  a  gun.  He  left  the 
cutter  sinking  and  one  of  the  men  dead. 

"  There's  a  bullet  hole  alongside  me  here,"  said  Pel 
lett  from  under  the  thwart.  "  You'd  better  plug  it." 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  HEAD  99 

Karaki  plugged  it  and  released  his  pasenger,  who 
sat  up  and  began  stretching  himself  with  a  certain 
naive  curiosity  of  his  own  body. 

"  So  you're  real,"  observed  Pellett,  staring  hard  at 
Karaki.  "  By  George,  you  are,  and  that's  comfort." 

He  was  right.     Karaki  was  very  real. 

"What  side  you  take'm  this  fella  canoe?" 

"  Balbi,"  said  Karaki,  using  the  native  word  for 
Bougainville. 

Pellett  whistled.  An  eight-hundred-mile  evasion  in 
an  open  boat  was  considerable  undertaking.  It  en 
listed  his  respect.  Moreover,  he  had  just  had  em 
phatic  proof  of  the  efficiency  of  this  little  black  man. 

"  Balbi  all  some  home  b'long  you?" 

"  Yes." 

"  All  right,  commodore,"  said  Pellett.  "  Lead  on. 
I  don't  know  why  you  shipped  me  for  supercargo,  but 
I'll  see  you  through." 

Strangely  —  or  perhaps  not  so  strangely  —  the 
whole  Fufuti  interval  of  his  history  had  been  fading 
from  his  brain  while  the  poison  was  ebbing  from  his 
tissues.  The  Christopher  Alexander  Pellett  that 
emerged  was  one  from  earlier  years :  pretty  much  of  a 
wreck,  it  was  true,  and  a  feckless,  indolent,  paltry 
creature  at  best,  but  ordinarily  human  and  rather  more 
than  ordinarily  intelligent. 

He  was  very  feeble  at  first,  but  Karaki's  diet  of  co 
conuts  and  sweet  potatoes  did  wonders  for  him,  and 
the  time  came  when  he  could  rejoice  in  the  good  salt 
taste  of  the  spray  on  his  lips  and  forget  for  hours  to 
gether  the  crazy  craving  for  stimulant.  They  made  a 
strange  crew,  this  pair  —  simple  savage  and  conval 
escent  drunkard  —  but  there  was  never  any  question 
as  to  which  was  in  command.  That  was  well  seen  in 
the  third  week  when  their  food  began  to  fail  and  Pel 
lett  noticed  that  Karaki  ate  nothing  for  a  whole  day. 


100       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

"  See  here,  this  won't  do,"  he  cried.  "  You've  given 
me  the  last  coconut  and  kept  none  for  yourself." 

"  Me  no  like'm  eat,"  said  Karaki  shortly. 

Christopher  Alexander  Pellett  pondered  many  mat 
ters  in  long,  idle  hours  while  the  rush  of  foam  under 
the  proa  and  the  creak  and  fling  of  her  outriggers  were 
the  only  sounds  between  sea  and  sky.  Sometimes  his 
brow  was  knotted  with  pain.  It  is  not  always  pleas 
ant  to  be  wrenched  back  into  level  contact  with  one's 
memories.  Thoughts  are  no  sweeter  company  for 
having  long  been  drowned.  He  had  met  the  horrors 
of  delirium.  He  had  now  to  face  the  livelier  devils  of 
his  past.  He  had  fled  them  before. 

But  here  was  no  escape  of  any  kind.  So  he  turned 
and  grappled  with  them  and  laid  them  one  by  one. 

When  they  had  been  at  sea  twenty-nine  days  they 
had  nothing  left  of  their  provisions  but  a  little  water. 
Karaki  doled  it  out  by  moistening  a  shred  of  coconut 
husk  and  giving  Pellett  the  shred  to  suck.  In  spite  of 
Pellett's  petulant  protest,  he  would  take  none  him 
self.  Again  the  heathen  nursed  the  derelict,  this  time 
through  the  last  stages  of  thirst,  scraping  the  staves 
of  the  cask  and  feeding  him  the  ultimate  drop  of  mois 
ture  on  the  point  of  a  knife. 

On  the  thirty-sixth  day  from  Fufuti  they  sighted 
Choiseul,  a  great  green  wall  that  built  up  slowly  across 
the  west. 

Once  fairly  under  its  headlands,  Karaki  might  have 
indulged  a  certain  triumph.  He  had  taken  as  his 
target  the  whole  length  of  the  Solomons,  some  six 
hundred  miles.  But  to  have  fetched  the  broadside 
of  them  anywhere  in  such  a  craft  as  the  proa  through 
storm  and  current,  without  instrument  or  chart,  was 
distinctly  a  feat  of  navigation.  Karaki,  however,  did 
no  celebrating.  Instead,  he  stared  long  and  anxious 
ly  over  his  shoulder  into  the  east. 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  HEAD  101 

The  wind  had  been  fitful  since  morning.  By  noon 
it  was  dead  calm  on  a  restless,  oily  sea.  A  barometer 
would  have  told  evil  tales,  but  Karaki  must  have 
guessed  them  anyway,  for  he  staggered  forward  and 
unstepped  the  little  mast.  Then  he  bound  all  his  cargo 
securely  under  the  thwarts  and  put  all  his  remaining 
strength  into  the  paddle,  heading  for  a  small  outpost 
island  where  a  line  of  white  showed  beach.  They  had 
been  very  lucky  thus  far,  but  they  were  still  two  miles 
off-shore  when  the  first  rush  of  the  hurricane  caught 
them. 

Karaki  himself  was  reduced  to  a  rattle  of  bones  in 
a  dried  skin,  and  Pellett  could  scarce  lift  a  hand.  But 
Karaki  fought  for  Pellett  among  the  waves  that  leaped 
up  like  sheets  of  fire  on  the  reef.  Why  or  how  they 
got  through  neither  could  have  said.  Perhaps  because 
it  was  written  that  after  drink,  illness,  madness,  and 
starvation  the  white  man  should  be  saved  by  the  black 
man  again  and  a  last  time  from  ravening  waters.  When 
they  came  ashore  on  the  islet  they  were  both  nearly 
flayed,  but  they  were  alive,  and  Karaki  still  gripped 
Pellett's  shirt.  .  .  . 

For  a  week  they  stayed  while  Pellett  fattened  on 
unlimited  coconut  and  Karaki  tinkered  the  proa.  It 
had  landed  in  a  water-logged  tangle,  but  Karaki's 
treasures  were  safe.  He  got  his  bearings  from  a  pass 
ing  native  fisherman,  and  then  he  knew  that  all  his 
treasures  were  safe.  His  home  island  lay  across  Bou 
gainville  Strait,  the  stretch  of  water  just  beyond.  .  .  . 

"Balbi  over  there?"  asked  Pellett. 

"  Yes,"  said  Karaki. 

"  And  a  mighty  good  thing  too,"  cried  Pellett  heart 
ily.  "  This  is  the  limit  of  British  authority,  old  boy. 
Big  fella  mahster  b'long  Beretani  stop'm  here,  no  can 
go  that  side." 

Karaki  was  quite  aware  of  it.  If  he  feared  one  thing 
in  the  world,  he  feared  the  Fiji  High  Court  and  its 


102       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

Resident  Commissioner  for  the  Southern  Solomons, 
who  did  sure  justice  upon  all  who  transgressed  in  its 
jurisdiction.  Once  beyond  the  Strait  he  might  still 
be  liable  for  the  stolen  goods  and  the  broken  con 
tract.  But  never  —  this  was  the  point  —  never  could 
he  be  punished  for  anything  he  might  choose  to  do 
over  there  in  Bougainville. 

So  Karaki  was  content. 

And  so  was  Christopher  Alexander  Pellett.  His 
body  had  been  wrung  and  swept  and  scoured,  and  he 
had  downed  his  devils.  Sweet  air  and  sunshine  were 
on  his  lips  and  in  his  heart.  His  bones  were  sweet 
in  him.  As  his  vigor  returned  he  swam  the  lagoon 
or  helped  Karaki  at  the  proa.  He  would  spend  hours 
hugging  the  warm  sand  or  rejoicing  in  the  delicate 
tracery  of  some  tiny  sea  shell,  singing  softly  to  him 
self  while  the  ground  swell  hushed  along  the  beach, 
savoring  life  as  he  never  had  done. 

"  Oh,  this  is  good  —  good !  "  he  said. 

Karaki  puzzled  him.  Not  that  he  vexed  himself, 
for  a  smiling  wonder  at  everything,  almost  childlike, 
filled  him  these  days.  But  he  thought  of  this  taciturn 
savage,  how  he  had  capped  thankless  service  with 
rarest  sacrifice. 

And  now  that  he  could  consider  soberly,  the  why  of 
it  eluded  him.  Why?  Affection?  Friendship?  It 
must  be  so,  and  he  warmed  toward  the  silent  little 
man  with  the  sunken  eyes  and  the  expressionless  face 
from  which  he  could  never  raise  a  wink. 

"  Hy,  you,  Karaki,  what  name  you  no  laugh  all 
same  me?  What?  You  too  much  fright  'long  that 
fella  stuff  you  steal?  Forget  it,  you  old  black  scamp. 
If  they  ever  trouble  you,  I'll  square  them  somehow. 
By  George,  I'll  say  I  stole  it  myself ! " 

Karaki  only  grunted  and  sat  down  to  clean  his  Win 
chester  with  a  bit  of  rag  and  some  drops  of  oil  he  had 
crushed  from  a  dried  coconut. 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  HEAD  103 

"  No,  that  don't  reach  him  either,"  murmured  Pel- 
lett,  baffled.  "  I'd  like  to  know  what's  going  on  under 
that  topknot  of  yours,  old  chap.  You're  like  Kipling's 
cat,  that  walks  by  himself.  God  knows  I'm  not  un 
grateful.  I  wish  I  could  show  you — " 

He  sprang  up. 

"  Karaki !  Me  one  big  fella  friend  'long  you :  savee  ? 
You  ©ne  big  fella  friend  'long  me :  savee  ?  We  two  dam 
big  fella  friend,  my  word!  .  .  .  What?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Karaki.  No  other  response.  He 
looked  at  Pellett  and  he  looked  away  toward  Bougain 
ville.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "  my  word,"  and  went  on  clean 
ing  his  gun  —  the  black  islander,  inscrutable,  incom 
prehensible,  an  enigma  always,  and  to  the  end. 

The  end  came  two  days  later  at  Bougainville. 

Under  a  gorgeous  dawn  they  came  into  a  bay  that 
opened  before  their  prow  as  with  jeweled  arms  of  wel 
come.  The  land  lay  lapped  in  bright  garments  like  a 
sleeper  half  awakened,  all  flushed  and  smiling,  sen 
suous  intimate,  thrilling  with  life,  breathing  warm 
scents  — 

These  were  some  of  the  foolish  phrases  Pellett  bab 
bled  to  himself  as  he  leaped  ashore  and  ran  up  on  a 
rocky  point  to  see  and  to  feel  and  to  draw  all  the  charm 
of  the  place  to  himself. 

Meanwhile  Karaki,  that  simple  and  efficient  little 
man,  was  proceeding  methodically  about  his  own  af 
fairs.  He  landed  his  bolts  of  cloth,  his  tobacco,  his 
knives,  and  the  other  loot.  He  landed  his  box  of  car 
tridges  and  his  rifle  and  his  fine  tomahawk.  The  goods 
were  somewhat  damaged  by  sea  water,  but  the  wea 
pons  had  been  carefully  cleaned  and  polished.  .  .  . 

Pellett  was  declaiming  poetry  aloud  to  the  alluring 
solitude  when  he  was  aware  of  a  gentle  footfall  and 
turned,  surprised  to  find  Karaki  standing  just  behind 
him  with  the  rifle  at  his  hip  and  the  ax  in  his  hand. 


104       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

"  Well,"  said  Pellett  cheerfully,  "  what  d'you  want, 
old  chappie  ?  " 

"  Me  like,"  said  Karaki,  while  there  gleamed  in  his 
eyes  the  strange  light  that  Moy  Jack  had  glimpsed 
there,  like  the  flicker  of  a  turning  shark ;  "  me  like'm 
too  much  one  fella  head  b'long  you ! " 

"What?    Head!    Whose  — my  head?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Karaki  simply. 

That  was  the  way  of  it.  That  was  all  the  mystery. 
The  savage  had  fallen  enamored  of  the  head  of  the 
beachcomber,  and  Christopher  Alexander  Pellett  had 
been  betrayed  by  his  fatal  red  whiskers.  In  Karaki's 
country  a  white  man's  head,  well  smoked,  is  a  thing 
to  be  desired  above  wealth,  above  lands  and  chief- 
ships,  fame,  and  the  love  of  women.  In  all  Karaki's 
country  was  no  head  like  the  head  of  Pellett.  There 
fore  Karaki  had  served  to  win  it  with  the  patience  and 
single  faith  of  a  Jacob.  For  this  he  had  schemed  and 
waited,  committed  theft  and  murder,  expended  sweat 
and  cunning,  starved  and  denied  himself,  nursed, 
watched,  tended,  fed,  and  saved  his  man  that  he  might 
bring  the  head  alive  and  on  the  hoof  —  so  to  speak  — 
to  the  spot  where  he  could  remove  it  at  leisure  and 
enjoy  the  fruits  of  his  labor  in  safety. 

Pellett  saw  all  this  at  a  flash,  understood  it  so  far 
as  any  white  could  understand:  the  whole  elemental 
and  stupendous  simplicity  of  it.  And  standing  there 
in  his  new  strength  and  sanity  under  the  fair  promise 
of  the  morning,  he  gave  a  laugh  that  pealed  across  the 
waters  and  started  the  sea  birds  from  their  cliffs,  the 
deep-throated  laugh  of  a  man  who  fathoms  and  ac 
cepts  the  last  great  jest.  .  .  . 

For  finally,  by  corrected  list,  the  possessions  of 
Christopher  Alexander  Pellett  were  these:  his  name, 
still  intact;  the  ruins  of  some  rusty  ducks;  his  pre 
cious  red  whiskers  —  and  soul  which  had  been  neatly 


THE  PRICE  OF  THE  HEAD  105 

recovered,  renewed,  refurbished,  reanimated,  and  re 
stored  to  him  by  his  good  friend  Karaki. 

Thou  shouldst  die  as  he  dies, 
For  whom  none  sheddeth  tears; 

Filling  thine  eyes 
And  fulfilling  thine  ears 

With  the  brilliance  .  .  .  the  bloom 
and  the  beauty  .  .  ." 

Thus  chanted  Christopher  Alexander  Pellett  over 
the  waters  of  the  bay,  and  then  whirled,  throwing 
wide  his  arms : 

"  Shoot,  damn  you !  It's  cheap  at  the  price ! " 


THE  SLANTED   BEAM 

ALL  the  world  meets  beneath  the  towering  spire 
of  Shway  Dagfohn,  which  pins  back  the  clouds 
and  throws  a  shadow  between  India  and  the 
China  Sea.  All  paths  in  the  East  tend  toward  that 
great  pagoda  with  its  mighty  shaft  of  gold.  Around 
the  sweep  of  its  pedestal,  among  its  terraced  mazes, 
is  one  of  the  common  crossroads  where  men  as  var 
ious  as  their  skins  and  their  faiths  come  to  mingle; 
to  worship  or  to  wonder:  seeking  each  in  his  own 
fashion  whatever  clue  to  the  meaning  of  things  he 
can  take  from  that  vast  ringer  which  carries  the  eye 
and  the  soul  up  and  up  and  points  forever  to  the  heart 
of  mystery. 

So  it  was  natural  enough,  as  it  was  also  inevitable 
and  ordained  since  the  beginning  of  time,  that  Cloots 
should  have  met  the  headman  of  Apyodaw  at  last 
in  one  of  the  tiny  shrines  clustering  under  the  Temple 
of  the  Slanted  Beam  on  Thehngoottara  Hill.  .  .  . 

The  shrine  in  no  way  differed  from  the  many  lesser 
chapels  and  zaydees  that  lined  the  ramp  and  the  inner 
and  outer  platforms.  Together  they  might  have 
seemed  a  jumble  of  booths  thrown  up  there  to  attract 
the  unhurrying,  sweet-voiced,  hip-swinging  natives 
who  drifted  and  gossiped  like  holiday  makers  at  a  fair. 

But  those  booths  were  built  of  enduring  stone  with 
a  serene  and  flawless  symmetry.  And  the  wares  they 
offered  were  the  philosophies  of  an  old,  old  religion. 
And  the  folk  themselves  in  their  thighbound  silks  of 
softened  maroon  and  olive  and  citrine  and  cutch,  with 
the  pink  fillets  about  their  brows  and  their  open  and 
twinkling  brown  faces,  were  a  very  ancient  folk  in- 

106 


THE  SLANTED  BEAM  107 

deed,  who  knew  what  they  knew  and  did  as  they  did 
a  small  matter  of  thirty  centuries  ago. 

Cloots  stepped  into  the  chapel  for  no  purpose,  in 
mere  idle  discernment  of  color  and  contrast. 

The  pagoda  and  its  whole  base,  dominating  the  city, 
swam  in  a  level  flood  of  late  sunset.  Every  surface 
had  taken  an  almost  intolerable  richness  and  warmth, 
from  the  far,  jeweled  spike  of  the  htee  four  hundred 
feet  above,  down  through  fire-gilt  and  smoldering  saf 
fron  to  the  pigeon-blood  ruby  of  the  monastery  roofs 
below.  Even  the  shadows  gave  off  a  purplish  haze. 
But  here,  inside  this  plain,  windowless  cell  of  white 
washed  wall  and  gray  pavement,  the  visitor  passed 
with  the  swift  relief  of  a  diver's  plunge  to  cool  and 
quiet,  and  the  pervading  peace  of  the  Excellent  Law. 

At  the  end  facing  the  doorway  was  the  sole  fur 
nishing  —  a  deep  niche  and  altar  where  sat  the  Buddha 
in  perpetual  contemplation. 

Some  forgotten  devotee,  toiling  wearily  like  the  rest 
of  us  up  the  ladder  of  existence,  had  once  earned  the 
right  to  skip  a  step  or  two  by  the  gift  of  this  life-size 
image.  Some  forgotten  artist  had  acquired  merit  by 
faithfully  carving  and  lacquering  it  on  teak,  with  the 
left  hand  lying  palm  upward  in  the  lap  and  the  right 
hanging  over  the  knee  —  with  the  calm  and  passion 
less  regard  which  somehow,  no  matter  what  the  me 
dium,  no  matter  what  conventions  interpose,  is  al 
ways  so  surely  portrayed.  But  that  had  been  long 
and  long  ago.  Decay  had  eaten  through  those  painted 
and  gilded  robes.  The  soot  of  many  years  had  tanned 
those  sacred  lineaments  to  an  obscure  and  homely 
human  tint. 

Along  the  near  edge  of  the  altar  lay  a  shallow 
trough  for  the  better  disposal  of  such  offerings  as 
the  shrine  might  receive:  fresh  flowers  and  flakes  of 
popped  and  colored  rice,  incense  sticks  of  which  the 


108       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

vapor  rose  in  a  slow,  unwavering  veil,  and  a  row  of 
paper  flags  to  record  the  prayers  of  the  pious. 

Midway  there  burned  a  single  taper,  a  point  of  light 
that  dimly  illumined  the  holy  spot  and  revealed  to 
Cloots,  as  he  entered,  its  only  other  occupant. 

On  a  bamboo  mat  knelt  a  young  girl,  fairly  on  her 
knees,  as  the  Rule  allows  for  such  frail  creatures.  Her 
black  hair  was  drawn  sleek  as  a  bird's  wing.  At  her 
breast  she  held  a  new  lotus  blossom,  no  softer  nor 
more  delicate  than  the  fingers  that  offered  it.  Her 
little  feet  were  carefully  tucked  within  the  silken 
tamehn.  Her  head  was  bowed.  And  the  gleaming 
curve  of  her  body,  all  her  lithe  vigor,  was  subdued, 
was  humbled,  to  the  act  of  ecstatic  supplication  before 
the  Excellent  One. 

Cloots  arrived  as  a  confident  and  more  or  less  truly 
appreciative  observer  of  all  these  details.  They  were 
familiar  to  him.  He  understood  them,  so  far  as  any 
perceptive,  far-wandering  white  is  likely  to  under 
stand.  They  ministered  to  him. 

He  approved  the  flaring  sunset  and  he  approved 
this  discreet  retreat  —  the  hushed  and  perfumed  air 
of  worship  no  less  than  the  stir  and  brilliance  outside. 
He  could  interpret  the  sigh  of  imploring  lips  and  the 
trouble  of  a  fluttered  little  breast  before  the  altar  as 
keenly  as  the  murmur  and  laughter  of  the  bare 
foot  crowds  and  the  distant  music  of  numberless  pa 
goda  chimes.  He  enjoyed  the  more  intimate  delights 
of  exotic  life  as  well  as  its  bright  outward  cheek.  Par 
ticularly,  having  just  renewed  his  contact  with  an  en 
gaging  and  responsive  native  people,  he  enjoyed  this 
opportunity  with  a  native  girl  —  decidedly  engaging 
and  probably  responsive. 

No  mere  brutal,  casual  sensualist  was  Cloots.  He 
found  it  good  to  be  alive.  He  found  it  very  good  to 
be  back  in  a  country  where  he  was  master  of  the 
idiom  and  the  customs.  He  found  it  exceeding  good 


THE  SLANTED  BEAM  109 

to  be  contemplating  the  skillful  conquest  of  such  a 
pilgrim,  so  earnest,  so  adorable,  and  so  appropriately 
concerned.  The  lady,  he  gathered,  was  praying  for  a 
husband.  .  .  . 

He  smiled,  and  when  he  turned  his  glance  it  en 
countered  the  eyes  of  the  headman  of  Apyodaw,  who 
had  entered  noiselessly  at  his  side  and  who  now  stood 
between  him  and  the  entrance. 

"  I  knew  I  should  find  thee,  Shway  Cloots." 

It  said  something  for  Cloots  that  he  did  not  cease 
smiling  all  at  once,  that  he  gave  no  outward  sign,  and 
that  he  was  able  to  answer  quite  soon  and  quite  stead 
ily  in  the  same  dialect. 

"  Hast  been  looking  for  me,  Moung  Poh  Sin  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  have  to  look,  Shway.    It  was  written." 

"  Hast  been  waiting  for  me,  then  ?  " 

"  It  was  written  I  would  have  to  wait." 

"  Was  it  also  written  that  I  had  become  any  safe 
or  easy  game  to  track  into  a  corner  ? "  demanded 
Cloots. 

"  I  did  not  track  thee." 

"  Half  an  hour  ago  I  left  the  docks,  newly  landed 
from  Moulmein.  No  man  could  have  given  thee  word 
of  my  return.  No  man  knew  if  ever  I  should  return." 

"  I  knew." 

"  By  that  I  mark  thee  a  liar  and  a  fool,  Moung  Poh 
Sin,  for  I  knew  it  not  myself.  I  see  now  thou  hast 
been  watching  and  spying  for  me.  By  the  harbor,  or 
by  the  pagoda  here,  belike.  A  long  vigil.  .  .  .  But  it 
can  profit  nothing.  What  could  it  profit  thee?  I  am 
not  the  kind  to  be  followed  and  hunted  down." 

"  I  tell  thee,  Shway,  I  did  not  follow  at  all.  At  the 
appointed  time  I  came  and  thou  wert  here.  The  talk 
and  all  things  else  come  in  their  order." 

"  So  and  so.  And  what  else  is  to  come,  thinkest 
thou?" 

"At  sunset   to-day,"   said   the  other   quietly,   "at 


110       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

big-bell  time,  I  am  to  slay  thee  in  this  chapel  under 
the  Slanted  Beam."  .  .  . 

Cloots  loosened  his  collar.  He  had  had  a  bit  of  a 
start.  He  had  been  surprised  into  rather  nervous 
speech.  But  he  recovered  himself.  Merely  he  was 
aware  of  a  slight  oppression,  due,  no  doubt,  to  the 
scented  fumes  in  this  inclosed  space.  Also,  he  took 
occasion  in  lowering  his  hand  to  run  one  finger  lightly 
down  the  front  of  his  green  twill  shooting  jacket  so 
that  the  buttons  were  slipped  and  the  lapels  left  open. 
"Art  mad?"  he  inquired.  "What  bable  is  this, 
Moung  Poh  Sin?"  he  rasped  abruptly.  "  Stand  away 
from  that  door,  dog !  Remove  —  stand  off !  " 

But  Moung  Poh  Sin  did  not  budge. 

Now,  there  are  ways  and  ways  of  regarding  the 
native  within  the  areas  of  white  empery.  As  a  sort  of 
inferior  and  obedient  jinn,  supplied  by  Providence  and 
invoked  by  a  gesture  to  fetch  and  to  carry  at  need. 
As  a  specimen  of  the  genus  homo,  also  inferior  and 
obedient,  but  quite  quaint  and  decorative  too,  and 
really  rather  useful,  you  know,  in  his  place.  Or  again, 
less  commonly,  as  an  elder  member  of  the  family,  with 
resources  and  subtleties  of  his  own  which  may  or  may 
not  be  inferior,  and  which  may  or  may  not  lead  to 
obedience,  but  which  lie  as  far  outside  the  chart  of  the 
Western  mind  as  a  quadratic  complex  lies  outside  a 
postage  stamp. 

This  last  view  is  not  popular,  and  when  brought 
home  to  the  invader  has  proved  at  times  extremely 
discomposing. 

Moung  Poh  Sin  was  a  squat,  middle-aged  person 
about  half  the  size  of  Cloots,  with  a  flat  and  serious 
face  resembling  a  design  punched  laboriously  on  a 
well-worn  saddle  flap.  There  was  a  little  about  him 
to  be  called  either  quaint  or  decorative.  His  bare, 
rugged  chest  under  the  narrow-edged  coat ;  his  sturdy, 


THE  SLANTED  BEAM  111 

misshapen  legs  to  which  the  silk  pasoh  lent  scanty 
disguise ;  the  slitted  eyes  that  held  a  glint  of  the  green 
jade  from  his  own  hills  —  all  his  features  were  rude 
and  resistant.  And  he  came  by  them  in  the  way  of 
average  after  his  kind,  for  he  was  part  Kachin,  which 
is  the  warlike  strain  of  the  upcountry  and  the  breed 
of  dacoits  and  raiders  from  the  dawn  of  history. 

Cloots  had  taken  the  measure  of  him  months  be 
fore  and  once  for  all,  he  would  have  said,  in  his  smoky 
little  village.  And  to  appearance  the  fellow  had  not 
changed  a  hair  from  the  simple,  untaught,  somewhat 
hard-bitten  but  altogether  undistinguished  headman  of 
Apyodaw.  He  was  just  what  he  had  always  been. 
Yet  Cloots  saw  now  with  transfixing  clarity  that  he 
did  not  know  him  in  the  least  —  could  never  have 
known  him.  For  this  native,  who  was  a  very  ordinary 
nat'lvt,  had  withdrawn  himself,  after  the  immemorial 
Banner  of  the  native  on  his  own  occasions,  beyond 
every  index  of  temper  or  purpose :  fear,  respect,  rage, 
hate,  injured  pride,  or  lacerated  honor;  impatience, 
vindictiveness,  greed  —  or  doubt. 

Cloots  could  not  fathom  Moung  Poh  Sin.  He  could 
not  follow  the  thought  process  of  Moung  Poh  Sin. 
Worst  of  all,  he  could  not  divine  those  elements  from 
which  Moung  Poh  Sin  had  borrowed  such  absolute 
and  amazing  assurance.  It  made  him  cautious. 

"  Softly,"  he  said.  "  Softly  a  while.  There  is  some 
folly  here.  Name  the  business." 

"  There  is  no  business,  Shway.    Only  a  debt." 

"  All  debts  of  money  were  long  ago  settled  between 
us." 

"  It  is  not  money,  Shway.  Only  my  house  is  empty ; 
my  hearth  is  cold.  My  heart  is  both  cold  and  empty. 
There  is  no  one  under  my  roof  to  husk  the  paddy,  or 
to  cook,  or  to  sing,  or  to  drive  away  evil  spirits  with 
laughter.  There  will  never  be  any  fat  babies  rolling 


112       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

about  the  mats  or  swinging  in  the  basket  at  my  home 
while  the  mother  tells  the  Sehn-nee,  the  cradle  song. 
Once  I  had  a  treasure  in  my  house,  Shway.  Where 
is  that  treasure  now  ?  " 

"  Meaning  thy  daughter,  Moung  Poh  Sin  ?  "  asked 
Cloots  directly  to  show  himself  quite  cool  and  firm. 
"  Meaning  Mah  Soung,  thy  daughter?" 

"  Mah  Soung  is  dead,"  said  the  headman. 

"  Mah  Soung  is  dead,"  repeated  Cloots,  and  an  echo 
ran  back  and  forth  between  the  walls  with  his  word. 
He  glanced  swiftly  toward  the  kneeling  maiden  by  the 
altar  in  the  dim  taper  light,  and  for  all  his  control  he 
could  not  repress  the  strangest  flicker  of  fancy.  She 
looked  very  like  Mah  Soung.  Very  like.  Some  tilt 
of  the  head,  some  odd,  soft  line  of  the  shining  tress 
over  the  ear  started  a  poignant  dart  of  memory,  caught 
his  breath  sharp.  It  was  in  just  such  a  place  as  this, 
he  recalled,  in  pursuit  of  just  such  an  idle,  colorful 
adventure,  that  he  first  had  found  Mah  Soung.  .  .  . 

But  then  —  he  told  himself  hastily  —  he  had  seen 
Mah  Soung  die.  Who  but  he  had  seen  her  die?  She 
had  died  with  her  adoring  eyes  and  her  slender  yel 
low  fingers  uplifted  to  him  as  this  girl's  eyes  and  fin 
gers  were  lifted  to  the  sacred  image. 

A  curious  qualm  took  him,  one  of  those  turns  of 
sick  uncertainty  that  now  and  then  seek  out  and  wring 
the  nerve  of  any  white  man  who  ventures  a  bit  too  far 
off  white  man's  ground. 

He  was  still  staring  as  the  worshiper  rose  from  the 
mat,  placed  her  water  lily  reverently  on  the  altar  and 
with  obeisance  and  the  murmured  invocation  that  be 
gins  "  Awgatha,  by  this  offering  I  free  me  from  the 
Three  Calamities,"  faced  about  and  glided  in  silence 
between  Cloots  and  Moung  Poh  Sin  and  so  on  and  out 
of  the  chapel  and  out  of  their  ken  forever. 

She  did  not  notice  either  man.  She  was  quite  un 
conscious  of  them.  They  had  spoken  in  a  hill  dialect, 


THE  SLANTED  BEAM  113 

all  incomprehensible  to  her.  .  .  .  She  was  not  Mah 
Soung,  of  course  —  though  Cloots  wiped  a  brow  gone 
damp  and  chill. 

"  I  have  learned,"  continued  the  headman  of  Apyo- 
daw  — "  I  have  learned  how  my  child  died  — " 

Cloots  regained  his  speech  in  a  curt  laugh. 

"What  is  that  to  me,  old  man?  Yesterday's  rice 
is  neither  eaten  nor  paid  for  twice." 

"  There  remains,  however,  Shway,  every  man's  ac 
count  with  the  nats  and  such  guarding  spirits  as  may 
be;  and  their  just  pay  is  taken  always  in  due  course." 

"  Do  they  ask  more  than  thee  for  a  daughter?  Thy 
payment  was  the  highest  market  rate,  at  least  —  But 
again  I  say,  stand  aside.  I  weary  of  thee,  Moung 
Poh  Sin." 

But  Moung  Poh  Sin  did  not  move. 

"  There  is  not  much  longer  to  wait,"  he  said,  neither 
grim  nor  humorous,  simply  unvarying.  "  The  sun  al 
ready  has  dipped.  Soon  the  big  bell  speaks  when  all 
will  be  paid." 

And  in  fact  it  became  clear  to  Cloots  that  this  affair 
would  have  to  be  solved  on  the  spot.  He  was  not 
minded  to  stand  any  more  of  it  nor  to  leave  Moung 
Poh  Sin  in  train  to  repeat  such  performances.  He  had 
lost  that  perfectly  ripping  new  love  toy  of  a  girl.  A 
very  jolly  evening  had  been  ruined  for  him,  and  his 
confident  balance  most  inexplicably  and  painfully 
shaken.  And  here  this  insignificant  relic  of  a  discarded 
past  was  undertaking  to  block  his  steps.  This  flute- 
toned,  slab-faced  little  heathen  was  presuming  to 
threaten  him,  to  name  the  moment  when  a  superior 
white,  with  his  strength  and  his  vision,  with  his  civil 
ized  capacity  for  perceptions  and  enjoyments,  should 
suddenly  cease  to  be.  .  .  . 

He  shifted  both  fists  easily  to  his  belt  and  took  a 
watchful  survey  of  the  figure  by  the  doorway  —  and 
he  did  some  rapid  calculating. 


114       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

Outside  on  the  platform  between  west  and  east,  be 
tween  flame  and  dark,  Shway  Dagohn  showed  now 
like  one  cutting  from  a  jasper  opal.  Each  flake  and 
streak  of  coloring  had  mellowed.  And,  with  that, 
all  sounds  seemed  mellower  too,  as  if  they  came  more 
resonantly  on  the  burdened  air.  Everywhere,  all 
about,  the  pagoda  bells  were  ringing:  bells  of  bronze 
and  silver  and  gold,  bells  hammered  by  devout  and 
lusty  celebrants,  bells  insistently  jangled  by  begging 
priests,  bells  that  tinkled  and  sighed  to  any  stray 
breeze.  And  the  whole  tide  of  color  and  of  sound  was 
drawing  to  an  end,  a  definite  climax:  presently  the 
tropic  night  would  fall  like  a  curtain,  and  presently 
the  huge  central  bell,  Mahah  Ganda,  "  the  great  sweet 
voice  "  which  is  the  voice  of  a  continent,  would  bestir 
itself  ever  so  slightly  for  an  instant  at  the  touch  of 
its  monstrous  battering-ram  and  wake  brazen  thunder 
far  and  wide. 

Cloots  reckoned  that  he  had  perhaps  five  minutes 
before  the  stated  limit.  It  was  to  be  a  sort  of  test, 
as  he  saw  and  accepted.  He  would  have  to  decide 
how  well,  after  all,  he  did  understand  the  ancient  half 
of  the  earth  to  which  he  and  others  like  him  went 
swaggering  as  conquerors  and  masters.  He  would  have 
to  demonstrate  which  of  the  various  ways  and  ways 
and  just  how  seriously  he  was  going  to  take  this 
ancient  people  and  their  self-sufficing  and  queerly 
keyed  formulas,  so  strange  and  vivid  and  charming. 
And  whether  he  was  going  to  be  laid  under  some  kind 
of  psychic  blackmail  every  time  he  chose  to  snatch  a 
delicious  interpretation. 

If  he  meant  to  be  quite  sure  of  that  essential  white 
superiority  of  this,  the  time  had  come  to  make  it  good. 

He  smiled  again  as  he  swung  the  right  lapel  of  his 
twill  jacket  a  little  farther  to  the  right.  .  .  . 

"  Moung  Poh  Sin,"  he  began,  almost  amiably,  "  with 


THE  SLANTED  BEAM  115 

the  rest  of  these  matters  which  seem  so  well  and  so 
fully  known  to  thee,  is  it  also  known  where  I  have 
been  since  I  went  away?" 

"  No,  Shway." 

"  Now,  as  it  chanced,  I  went  to  the  Salween  coun 
try;  even  up  into  Yunnan,  the  Cloudy  South.  And 
there,  in  those  wild  parts,  I  hunted  the  painted  leop 
ard  and  the  fishing  cat  and  the  tiger  cat  and  other 
such,  as  I  have  done  before.  .  .  .  Thou  hast  seen  me 
shoot?" 

"Yes,  Shway." 

"  Rememberest  thou,  perhaps,  how  once  at  Apyo- 
daw  in  a  merry  mood,  to  show  my  skill  and  for  a  jest, 
I  shot  away  one  by  one  the  six  strings  from  a  min- 
sterel's  harp  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Shway." 

"  And  again,  how  with  the  short  gun  I  slew  a  pigeon 
on  a  housetop  and  tore  the  head  from  its  body?" 

"  Yes,  Shway." 

"  Then,  for  the  third  and  the  last  time,  I  warn  thee 
to  get  clear  of  that  door  and  of  me  —  and  to  keep 
clear,  Moung  Poh  Sin.  I  have  been  patient  and  tol 
erant,  marveling  too  much  at  thy  insolence  to  be  right 
ly  angered.  But  I  have  had  enough.  By  every  law 
of  the  land  and  by  common  privilege  of  my  kind,  thy 
life  is  forfeit  to  me  for  daring  to  breathe  these  threats. 
And  it  was  a  pity  of  thy  cunning,  and  a  flaw  in  thy 
information,  not  to  have  learned  whence  I  came  —  and 
whether  I  would  be  likely  to  come  from  a  place  like 
Yunnan  unarmed,  Moung  Poh  Sin !  " 

But  Moung  Poh  Sin  did  not  stir. 

"  That  can  make  no  change,  Shway.  My  own  life 
is  of  no  moment,  and  thine  is  surely  forfeit,  as  I  told 
thee  —  here  by  the  Slanted  Beam  when  the  sun  sets. 
What  will  be  will  be.  It  is  written." 

Whereupon  Cloots  very  quickly  and  expertly  fired 
once  from  the  hip.  The  shot  burst  with  a  racketing 


116       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

smash  against  the  eardrums.  To  any  on  the  platform 
it  might  have  just  sounded  as  a  clap  of  hands,  no 
louder.  But  within  these  solid  blank  walls  it  multi 
plied  like  a  volley,  then  dwindled  and  passed.  A  weft 
of  smoke  went  drifting  across  the  taper,  and  that  too 
passed.  The  chapel  fell  quiet.  There  had  been  no 
visible  result. 

At  one  side  stood  the  white  man,  half  crouching  in 
the  act,  tense  and  expectant ;  and  by  the  doorway  stood 
the  headman  of  Apyodaw,  planted  in  the  same  posi 
tion  he  had  held  throughout,  with  the  rectangle  of 
fading  daylight  behind  him  —  a  little  brown  figure  in 
neutral  tinted  silks.  .  .  . 

"  They  do  not  strike  the  big  bell  until  the  last  ray 
of  the  sun,"  explained  Moung  Poh  Sin,  without  the 
least  quiver  of  emotion,  without  the  least  break  of 
intonation.  "  We  have  yet  some  moments  to  wait." 

Cloots  glared  at  him,  astonished,  unable  and  unwill 
ing  to  believe,  picturing  the  collapse,  waiting  from  one 
tick  of  time  to  the  next  to  see  the  fellow  crumple  on 
the  stones.  But  nothing  happened,  nothing  came  of 
it,  and  he  brought  up  his  arm  and  the  glittering,  com 
pact  fistful  of  steel,  and  this  time  he  took  deliberate 
aim. 

Again  the  shot  and  smashing  echo.  Again  the  still 
pause. 

"  They  will  be  making  ready  now,"  said  Moung 
Poh  Sin  evenly.  "  They  will  be  swinging  out  the 
striker  of  the  big  bell." 

All  shadows  about  the  pagoda  had  run  long  and 
black  like  spurts  of  jet  and  its  western  edge  was  no 
more  than  lined  with  copper;  only  the  topmost  peak 
caught  a  last  radiance  and  spread  and  shed  a  faint 
ruddy  glow  and  a  patch  of  that  lay  on  the  threshold 
of  the  chapel.  .  .  . 

Cloots  had  fallen  back  to  the  wall  with  sagging  jaw, 


THE  SLANTED  BEAM  117 

with  eyes  fixed  and  starting  in  their  sockets.  He  was 
stricken;  he  was  beaten.  For  he  had  come  to  the 
end  of  things  known  and  conceivable.  He  had  reached 
the  end  of  the  white  man's  resource  and  had  made 
the  ultimate  appeal  of  the  white  man's  civilization  — 
and  had  failed.  Beyond  lay  the  incredible  and  the 
impossible.  It  was  rather  a  galvanic  impulse  than 
any  reasoned  operation  by  which  he  brought  up  his 
weapon  in  both  shaking  hands,  steadied  an  elbow 
against  his  side  and  fired  a  third  and  last  despairing 
shot. 

From  somewhere,  from  under  their  feet  as  it  seemed, 
there  issued  a  vast  booming  vibration ;  the  air  fluttered 
to  a  single  gigantic,  metallic  stroke.  And  it  was  then 
and  not  until  then  that  Moung  Poh  Sin  moved  at  last 
and  drew  from  the  silken  folds  at  his  waist  a  broad, 
short-shafted  knife  and  all  with  perfect  precision  and 
deliberation  advanced  to  do  what  he  was  there  to  do. 

"  The  time  has  come,"  said  Moung  Poh  Sin.  .  .  . 

Outside  it  had  gone  quite  dark. 

Those  two  busy  officials  of  colonial  administration 
whose  duty  it  was  to  gather  up  and  to  sort  out  the 
threads  of  local  crime  in  that  far  Eastern  port  wasted 
no  time  and  few  words  about  their  work.  They  had 
been  on  many  cases  together.  Moreover,  this  par 
ticular  case  offered  a  bare  simplicity  in  its  few  apparent 
details.  Also,  since  it  concerned  the  death  of  a  white, 
it  called  for  urgent  action,  and  they  went  at  it  with 
precision  and  dispatch  while  the  police  guard  held 
the  entrance  against  a  wondering  throng. 

"  How  long  has  he  been  dead  ?  "  asked  the  assistant 
inspector. 

"  Some  ten  minutes,  I  should  say,"  returned  the 
medical  examiner.  "  He's  still  warm." 

"  Instantaneous?  " 

"As  nearly  as  possible.  His  heart's  been  split  in 
half,  you  might  say,  with  this  dah"  The  doctor  indi- 


118       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

cated  a  short  iron  dagger  buried  to  its  iron  handle 
in  the  victim's  left  breast.  "  One  jab,  and  no  bung 
ling  about  it." 

"  Done  by  a  native,"  remarked  the  inspector,  bend 
ing  over. 

"  Evidently.  But  what  kind  of  a  Buddhist  was  he, 
giving  himself  to  the  frozen  Buddhist  hell  by  taking 
a  life?" 

"  Not  much  of  a  Buddhist.  That's  a  hill  weapon. 
They're  hardly  what  you'd  call  orthodox  in  the  hills." 

"  Quite  true,"  agreed  the  doctor.  "  Buddhism  is  a 
modern  novelty  to  the  hills.  What's  a  matter  of  three 
thousand  years?  They've  got  a  system  rather  older." 

"  And  we've  got  a  story  here,  if  we  could  only  read 
it,  that's  older  than  any  system." 

"  But  still  —  to  kill  a  man  in  a  shrine,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes.     He  must  have  had  a  pretty  good  reason." 

Something  in  the  other's  tone  made  the  doctor  look 
up. 

"  You  knew  this  chap  ?  " 

"  Slightly,"  said  the  inspector.  "  Name  of  Cloots. 
He's  been  cruising  about  after  jade  and  ruby  mines 
one  time  and  another,  living  among  the  people.  Kind 
of  a  prospecting  tramp  and  adventurer  —  you  know 
the  type.  Rather  an  obnoxious  beast,  if  he's  the  one 
I've  heard  about." 

The  doctor  sought  no  further  comments  on  Cloots — 
that  was  quite  sufficient  and  might  serve  for  an  epi 
taph.  He  preferred  to  jot  down  certain  necessary 
official  entries  in  his  little  book,  and  as  the  light  was 
bad  he  moved  away  toward  the  altar.  Meanwhile  the 
inspector  remained  by  the  body,  outsprawled  there  in 
a  crimson  pool,  until  an  exclamation  brought  him  spin 
ning  around  to  find  his  colleague  standing  under  the 
glimmer  of  the  lone  taper  and  looking  singularly  pale, 
he  thought. 


THE  SLANTED  BEAM  119 

But  the  doctor's  question  was  quietly  put. 

"  Have  you  any  notion  what  became  of  the  mur 
derer?" 

"  It's  a  queer  business,"  admitted  the  inspector, 
frowning.  "  I  wish  I  could  begin  to  learn  something 
of  the  capabilities  of  these  people.  There  must  have 
been  three  hundred  about  the  platform  and  the  stairs. 
And  we  can't  dig  up  a  clue  to  save  ourselves." 

"No  theory  yet?" 

"What  theory  can  there  be?  You  see  the  material 
as  well  as  I.  A  corpse,  a  knife,  and  an  empty  shrine. 
It's  a  clear  get-away,  without  a  witness." 

"  Quite  so.  But  aren't  you  forgetting  this  witness?  " 

The  doctor  laid  a  finger  on  the  image  of  the  Buddha. 
There  it  sat  behind  the  taper  and  the  offerings  and  the 
veiling  vapor  of  the  incense.  There  it  sat  cross-legged 
in  its  niche,  with  the  left  hand  lying  palm  upward  in 
the  lap  and  the  right  hanging  over  the  knee  —  with  the 
calm  and  passionless  and  inscrutable  regard  of  the 
tradition  —  a  life-size  image,  whose  painted  garments 
in  gilt  and  old  rose,  whose  set  and  peaceful  features 
had  been  dimmed  to  a  uniform  human  tint.  A  very  or 
dinary  image.  .  .  . 

At  least  so  it  seemed  to  the  bewildered  inspector. 
Until  he  saw  it  sag  a  trifle.  Until  he  saw  it  give 
flaccidly  under  the  doctor's  touch.  And  then  he  saw 
that  the  actual  image  had  been  displaced  and  jammed 
back  into  the  niche  for  a  support  and  that  this  —  this 
was  a  substitute. 

"  Dead !  "  he  breathed. 

The  doctor  dropped  the  wrist  he  had  been  thumbing. 

"  Dead,"  he  affirmed  rather  shakily.  "  And  not  only 
dead,  but  cold !  .  .  .  Inspector,  I'm  not  a  fanciful  man, 
would  you  say?  I'm  not  one  to  believe  much  in  devia 
tions  from  the  normal  —  in  aberrations  from  the  posi 
tive,  eh  ?  —  even  under  the  Temple  of  the  Slanted 


120       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

Beam.  But  I'd  swear  in  any  court  —  west  of  Suez,  I 
mean  —  I'd  take  my  solemn  oath  the  fellow  was  dead 
when  he  climbed  to  that  altar !  .  .  .  It's  the  plain  evi 
dence.  It's  as  certain  as  anything  I  know,  if  I  know 
anything.  .  .  .  Dead?  .  .  .  He  was  dead  the  first  of 
the  two!  He  was  obliterated,  wiped  out,  blasted  out  of 
existence,  a  full  five  minutes  before  he  ever  killed  that 
white  chap  there  on  the  floor!" 

"  Capabilities,"  stammered  the  inspector.  "  Would 
you  call  that  suspended  animation,  now  —  or  what?" 

"  I'd  call  it  suspended  extinction,  if  there  were  such 
a  thing  in  medical  science.  As  it  is,  I'll  call  it  sus 
pended  judgment  and  let  it  go  at  that." 

They  stayed  staring  at  Moung  Poh  Sin  for  a  while. 

" '  There  are  more  things  'twixt ' — "  began  the 
doctor. 

"Twixt  East  and  West,"  suggested  the  inspector. 

"  Quite  so.  And  if  you  doubt  my  word  for  it  — 
look!"  .  .  . 

He  lifted  aside  the  narrow-edged  coat  to  show  the 
naked,  rugged  breast  beneath ;  and  there,  a  little  to  the 
left,  within  a  space  that  might  have  been  covered  with 
a  lotus  leaf  were  three  smooth,  round  bullet  holes 
where  the  late  headman  of  Apyodaw  had  been  drilled 
through  the  heart  —  three  times. 


THE  RED  MARK 

EVEN  now  nobody  can  tell  his  name,  though 
doubtless   it  was   a   grand  and  a  proud  one. 
Perhaps  you  could  find  it  in  the  files  of  the 
Bordeaux  press  twenty  years  ago,  when  they  sentenced 
him  to  transportation  for  life  for  five  proved  murders. 
Since  then  it  has  been  officially  forgotten.     But  the 
man  himself  has  lived  on.    He  lives  and  he  continues 
to  develop  his  capabilities  —  as  we  are  all  expected  to 
do  here  in  New  Caledonia. 

M.  de  Nou,  we  call  him.  He  is  our  only  convict 
official.  Ordinarily,  you  comprehend,  our  jailers  do 
not  admit  convicts  to  the  administration.  We  are  citi 
zens,  if  you  like,  in  this  criminal  commonwealth.  We 
are  the  populace  of  this  outlaw  colony  at  the  far  navel 
of  the  earth.  We  are  artisans,  workmen,  domestics: 
we  are  masons,  cooks,  farmers :  we  are  even  landholders 
and  concessionaires  —  enjoying  the  high  privilege  of 
forced  labor,  the  lofty  civic  title  of  cattle  in  a  bull 
pen.  It  is  all  very  philanthropic :  but  we  have  not  yet 
risen  to  fill  posts  under  the  government.  Except  one 
of  us.  He  has  been  raised  because  they  could  find  no 
other,  convict  or  free,  to  perform  the  peculiar  duties  of 
the  position.  That  is  M.  de  Nou.  We  hate  him.  There 
is  not  a  creature  of  us  from  Balade  to  Noumea,  from 
the  nickel  mines  of  Thio  to  the  forests  of  Baie  du  Sud, 
that  does  not  hate  and  fear  him  as  some  other  people 
hate  and  fear  sin.  The  very  Canaques  flee  at  the  whis 
per  of  his  coming  and  invoke  their  own  dark  gods 
against  this  white  demon  in  the  flesh.  Eight  thousand 
felons  bear  the  thought  of  him  in  daily  bitterness.  We 
have  been  thieves,  assassins,  poisoners:  we  have  been 

121 


122       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

set  aside  in  a  sort  of  infected  rubbish-box,  the  sweep 
ings  of  the  prisons :  but  the  last  of  us,  perishing  from 
thirst,  would  turn  back  a  cup  that  had  been  polluted 
by  the  touch  of  M.  de  Nou.  When  M.  de  Nou  comes 
to  die  the  devil  will  have  to  dig  a  deeper  pit.  Hell  is 
too  good  for  M.  de  Nou. 

He  is  the  executioner.  He  operates  the  guillotine. 
Not  for  any  pay  or  profit  nor  for  the  rank  it  gives  him : 
but  from  choice.  It  is  his  capability!  It  is  the  thing 
he  likes  to  do. 

Me,  I  am  even  with  him.  I  am  even  with  him  against 
all  time.  Should  it  be  my  fate  to  pass  through  his 
hands  some  day,  should  he  stand  to  perform  his  last 
dreadful  offices  for  me,  still  am  I  even  with  him.  I 
would  grin  from  under  the  slide  itself  and  I  would  say 
to  him — "M.  de  Nou,  I  am  even  with  you!"  But  I 
would  not  tell  him  how.  I  would  turn  silent  from  those 
haunted  yellow  eyes,  half-understanding  and  ravening 
at  me,  and  I  would  die  content  to  leave  him  to  his 
damnation.  No,  I  would  not  tell !  .  .  .  Only  I  am  tell 
ing  you,  truly,  so  that  perhaps  this  tale  may  reach 
some  of  our  friends  who  have  escaped  from  New  Cale 
donia  into  the  world  again.  They  will  remember,  and 
they  will  rejoice  to  hear  how  I  evened  the  score  on 
M.  de  Nou.  Listen: 

It  was  soon  after  my  release  from  the  Collective  — 
when  I  was  considered  to  be  properly  chastened  by 
residence  in  the  cells  —  that  I  had  the  ill-luck  to  meet 
this  individual. 

You  can  see  for  yourself  I  was  never  built  for  rude 
labor.  But  I  have  a  certain  deftness  of  my  fingers 
and  perhaps  also  —  well,  a  certain  polish  —  what?  .  .  . 
Monsieur  agrees?  Too  kind!  Your  servant,  Mon 
sieur.  .  .  .  Anyway,  it  was  quite  natural  I  should  find 
employment  with  Maitre  Sergeo,  he  who  keeps  the 
barber  shop  in  the  Rue  des  Fleurs. 

Maitre   Sergeo  is  a  worthy  man,   a  libere,  which 


THE  RED  MARK  123 

means  he  was  formerly  a  life  convict  himself,  you  un 
derstand,  though  since  restored  to  certain  rights  with 
in  the  colony  limits.  Requiring  an  assistant  at  his 
lathery  trade  he  applied  to  the  penitentiary  on  He  de 
Nou. 

"  Here  is  a  brisk  fellow,"  said  the  sub-commandant, 
leading  me  out  like  a  horse  at  a  fair.  "  Number  7897. 
Docile  and  clever.  Condemned  for  eight  years.  Hav 
ing  served  his  Collective  with  a  clear  record.  If  you 
are  ever  dull  about  your  place  he  will  sing  you  the 
latest  operas.  He  has  all  the  polite  accomplishments." 

"A  duke  in  trouble,"  suggested  Maitre  Sergeo, 
regarding  me  with  his  sober  twinkle.  "What  ro 
mance  !  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  is  the  Red  Mark  himself ! " 

Strange  he  should  have  said  that.  Strange,  too, 
that  I  should  have  heard  the  term  then  and  there  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life.  Afterwards  I  found  it  com 
mon  enough,  a  kind  of  by-word  among  people  who 
affect  to  share  the  inner  mysteries  of  police  and  crime. 
And  later  still  I  had  good  reason  to  remember  it. 

Meanwhile  the  sub-commandant  was  encouraging 
no  unofficial  illusions  on  my  account. 

"  I  said  nothing  about  a  duke,"  he  returned.  "  But 
this  is  a  superior  type.  He  has  been  a  student  in  his 
day  and  even  has  taken  prizes." 

"  I  hope  he  has  not  the  habit  of  taking  them  from 
the  till,"  said  Maitre  Sergeo,  like  a  prudent  patron. 
"  What  was  his  little  affair?  " 

The  sub-commandant  consulted  my  ticket. 

"  An  argument  with  a  knife,  it  appears.  A  favor 
able  case.  Only  his  enemy  was  so  ill-conditioned  as 
to  die." 

"  I  shall  employ  him,"  decided  Maitre  Sergeo.  "  A 
man  who  is  handy  with  a  knife  should  also  qualify 
with  a  razor." 

That  is  how  I  came,  as  Bibi-Ri  always  said,  to  be 
scraping  throats  instead  of  cutting  them.  Myself,  I 


124       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

considered  the  jest  rather  poor  taste  and  Bibi-Ri  a 
good  deal  of  a  chattering  monkey.  But  what  would 
you?  Nobody  could  be  angry  with  that  mad  fellow. 
He  was  privileged. 

Also,  as  it  happened,  Bibi-Ri  himself  was  my  single 
client  on  this  particular  afternoon  of  which  I  speak. 
I  recall  it  with  an  authentic  clearness :  one  of  those 
days  made  in  paradise  for  a  reproach  upon  us  poor 
wretches  in  purgatory:  the  air  sweet  and  mellow, 
spiced  with  tropic  blossoms:  the  sky  a  blue  ravish 
ment:  the  sunlight  tawny  in  the  street  outside  as  if 
seen  through  a  glass  of  rich  wine. 

It  was  very  quiet  and  peaceful.  From  the  Place  des 
Cocotiers  not  far  away  one  heard  the  band  discoursing. 
Those  convict  musicians  were  playing  Perle  d'ltalie, 
as  I  bring  to  mind :  a  faded  but  graceful  melody.  One 
could  be  almost  happy  at  moments  like  this,  forgetting 
the  shameful  canvas  uniform  and  the  mockery  of  one's 
freedom  on  a  leash.  I  even  hummed  the  tune  as  I 
listened  and  kept  the  measure  with  stropping  my 
blade. 

I  waited  for  Bibi-Ri.  By  an  amiable  conceit  he 
never  failed  each  day  to  get  his  chin  new  razored  — 
though  in  truth  it  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  a 
small  onion:  as  I  often  told  him. 

"  That  is  no  reason  why  you  should  peel  it,  sacred 
farceur !  "  he  would  sputter.  "  Please  to  notice  I  have 
only  the  one  skin  to  my  face !  " 

But  this  day  he  was  late.  I  missed  the  merry  rascal. 
His  hour  went  by  and  still  he  did  not  come.  And 
then,  of  a  sudden,  I  spied  him. 

He  was  passing  among  the  market  stalls  on  the  op 
posite  pave:  unmistakable,  his  quick,  spare  figure  in 
the  jacket  tight-buttoned  to  the  chin  as  he  always  wore 
it  and  the  convict's  straw  hat  pulled  low  on  his  brow. 
Bibi-Ri  in  fact.  But  he  never  even  glanced  to  my  side. 
At  the  pace  of  a  rent  collector  he  hurried  by  and  dis- 


THE  RED  MARK  125 

appeared.  .  .  .  This  is  singular,  I  thought.  What 
game  has  he  started  now? 

Presently  he  came  hurrying  back  again,  and  this 
trip  I  discovered  he  was  following  a  girl.  But  yes! 
A  market  girl.  Only  a  slip  of  a  thing  —  I  could  not 
see  her  well  —  a  dainty  piece  she  seemed,  supple  as  a 
kitten,  who  threaded  her  way  with  a  basket  on  her 
arm.  I  caught  a  flash  of  bare  ankle  white  as  milk,  the 
sheen  of  her  hair,  smooth  like  a  raven's  wing :  and  she 
was  gone,  with  Bibi-Ri  at  her  skirts. 

Three  times  I  saw  them  so,  through  the  drifting 
chaffering  throng. 

"  The  rogue !  "  I  murmured.  "  He  has  found  a  bet 
ter  amusement  that  getting  himself  flayed  by  me. 
Evidently !  " 

At  the  very  word  came  a  swift  clatter  of  sandals  and 
who  should  burst  into  the  shop  upon  me  but  that  same 
Bibi-Ri.  I  had  a  finger  lifted  to  accuse  him,  but  I 
stopped  at  sight  of  his  face. 

"  Dumail !  "  he  cried.    "  Hide  me !  " 

My  faith,  he  took  one's  breath  away. 

"  Hide  me  and  say  nothing !  "  he  implored. 

Well,  then  I  thought  he  was  simply  up  to  some  of 
his  jokes  again.  You  understand  there  is  no  actual 
hiding  in  a  penal  settlement,  where  we  all  live  in  the 
eye  of  the  police.  Nevertheless  I  obeyed,  planted  him 
in  my  chair,  flung  a  cloth  about  his  neck  and  slapped 
on  a  great  mask  of  lather. 

I  had  him  well  settled  under  the  razor  when  a  shadow 
edged  across  the  doorway.  Glancing  over  his  shoulder, 
Bibi-Ri  made  a  jump  to  rise. 

"  Animal !  "  I   protested.     "  Will  you   take  care !  " 

But  I  saw  him  staring  with  a  strange  fear. 

Just  outside  by  the  threshold  stood  a  man,  an  amaz 
ingly  tall  man,  looking  in  at  us.  The  sunlight  de 
scended  on  him  there  like  the  flood  of  a  proscenium 
and  he  himself  might  have  seemed  a  player  in  some 


126       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

stage  burlesque.  Yes,  one  might  have  smiled  at  first 
glimpse  of  him :  a  travesty  of  fashion  in  his  long  black 
redingote  and  varnished  high  hat  of  ancient  form 
which  added  the  touch  of  caricature  to  his  height.  One 
might  have  smiled,  I  say  .  .  .  but  the  smile  would 
have  frozen  next  instant  as  a  ripple  freezes  on  a  street 
puddle. 

His  face  was  a  moist  and  shining  white,  the  white 
of  a  corpse  under  the  icy  spray  of  the  Morgue.  He 
was  old,  of  reverend  years,  though  still  straight  and 
strong  as  a  poplar.  And  with  that  mouth  of  painted 
passion  and  a  great  nose  curved  like  a  saber  and  the 
glittering  tiger  eyes  in  the  skull  of  him  —  I  leave  you 
to  imagine  any  one  more  appalling. 

Close  behind  him  came  another:  a  bandy-legged, 
squat  fellow  like  a  little  black  spider,  in  attendance. 

Even  then,  before  knowing,  I  shrank  from  them 
both.  They  resembled  the  bizarre  and  evil  figures  of 
the  Guignol  that  used  to  haunt  my  dreams  in  child 
hood.  Truly.  And  the  tall  one  was  Polichinelle,  the 
image  of  a  gratuitous  and  uncomprehended  wicked 
ness. 

"  Well  done,  hireling,"  he  observed,  in  the  voice  of 
a  crow.  "  Well  done  indeed !  You  are  something  of  a 
craftsman  too.  A  good  beginning.  And  a  good  sub 
ject,  who  is  ripe  to  have  the  head  shaved  from  his 
shoulders,  I  should  think.  .  .  .  Pray  continue,"  he 
said.  "  Cut  again  and  cut  deeper !  " 

Thereupon  I  became  aware  he  was  addressing  me, 
and  with  the  most  pointed,  the  most  sinister  interest: 
and  next  I  found  myself  still  holding  the  razor  over 
Bibi-Ri's  cheek  where  he  had  taken  an  ugly  gash.  That 
big  devil  smiled  and  chuckled  in  intimate  fashion  at 
my  red  blade.  His  eyes  shone  like  topaz.  Stupidly 
I  followed  their  gaze.  When  I  looked  up  again  .  ,  , 
the  two  outside  were  gone. 

"  Name  of  God !  "  I  cried.    "  Who  are  those?  " 


THE  RED  MARK  127 

Bibi-Ri  had  fallen  back  in  his  chair. 

"  The  vultures !  " 

Well,  I  understood  fast  enough  that  I  had  made 
acquaintance  of  the  terrible  M.  de  Nou.  The  other 
would  be  his  aide  and  familiar,  a  former  Polish  anar 
chist  —  I  had  heard  —  whom  even  the  society  of  con 
victs  rejected  and  who  bore  the  fit  name:  Bombiste. 
These  were  the  dreaded  servants  of  "the  guillotine. 
But  now  they  had  passed  I  was  bold  as  the  best:  I 
could  mock  myself. 

"  Imbeciles !  "  I  laughed.  "To  be  scared  by  an  old 
bogey  like  that!  The  executioner?  So  be  it.  We 
can  curse  him  and  let  him  go.  .  .  .  Though  in  truth  he 
has  a  sickly  notion  of  an  afternoon  call,  the  lascar! 
.  .  .  Sit  still  while  I  plaster  that  sliced  onion  of  yours." 

But  something  had  come  upon  Bibi-Ri.  For  once 
he  gave  me  back  no  jest. 

"  The  monster  has  marked  me  down !  You  heard 
him  ?  It  is  a  warning !  "  At  that  he  started  up,  all 
streaky  with  soap  and  blood  as  he  was,  and  must  rush 
away  on  some  errand.  And  then  remembering  it  would 
be  impossible  to  run  the  police  limits  of  Noumea  be 
fore  dark,  collapsed  again.  "  I  am  lost !  " 

Figure  my  amazement. 

"  But  how?  "  I  demanded.  "  Does  your  blessed  ex 
ecutioner  have  power  to  pick  his  own  victims?  .  .  . 
Does  he  go  about  cropping  heads,  for  example,  like 
a  man  in  a  flower  garden  ?  What  can  he  make  to  you  ? 
.  .  .  Unless  perhaps  he  has  come  between  you  and  that 
fair  fortune  I  saw  you  pursuing  so  ardently  a  moment 
ago." 

The  way  his  jaw  dropped !  As  if  I  had  touched  the 
very  spring  of  his  destiny. 

Now  you  can  guess  that  I  knew  perhaps  a  little  — 
no  matter  how  little  —  of  lawlessness  and  violence  and 
secret  intrigue  persisting  within  this  model  criminal 
laboratory  of  ours.  Do  you  change  vice  to  virtue  by 


128       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

transporting  it  half  a  world  away  and  bottling  it  up? 
A  disturbing  question.  At  least  if  you  expect  your 
convicts  to  work,  to  aspire,  even  to  marry  and  to 
multiply  like  free  men,  you  must  expect  them  also  to 
covet,  to  scheme,  to  quarrel  and  to  sin  —  again  like 
free  men.  These  facts  I  had  noted  without  exploring 
too  deeply,  you  comprehend.  But  Bibi-Ri  was  the  last 
I  should  have  credited  with  a  share  in  their  darker 
meaning. 

Only  picture  this  client  as  I  had  found  him.  A 
nimble  rogue:  a  kind  of  licensed  pest,  with  a  droll 
face  resembling  those  rubber  toys  that  wink  and  gri 
mace  between  your  fingers.  True,  he  had  been  shipped 
with  the  worst  of  us.  But  what  of  that?  One  knows 
these  gentlemen  the  Parisian  police:  how  they  cry  a 
wolf  and  then  go  out  and  nab  some  stray  puppy  in 
the  street.  Bibi-Ri!  One  wondered  how  he  had  ever 
earned  his  sentence. 

And  yet  —  and  yet  there  was  certainly  something 
about  the  fellow.  In  his  eyes  were  depths.  Something 
fateful  and  despairing.  Something,  in  view  of  his  ac 
customed  mad  humor,  to  make  me  pitiful  and  uneasy. 

"  Look  here,  my  zig,"  I  said.  "  I  have  seen  too 
much  and  not  enough.  What  have  you  done?  I  spy 
a  gay  mystery  that  makes  a  comedian  like  you  play 
such  a  part." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  the  other  part  I  have  to  play,"  he 
returned,  with  a  gleam  of  his  proper  spirit.  "  Per 
haps  I  am  playing  it  at  the  last  gasp  of  fright  —  my 
poor  knees  clapping  like  castanets.  .  .  . 

"  Dumail,"  he  said,  "  put  it  this  way :  Suppose  you 
were  within  three  counted  weeks  of  your  final  release 
from  this  hell  of  an  island.  Your  little  red  ticket  in 
hand  and  the  actual  ship  in  harbor  that  presently 
should  bear  you  home.  Within  sight  of  heaven  —  you 
understand.  Able  to  taste  it.  Able  to  count  the  days 
still  left  you  like  so  many  bars  on  a  red-hot  gridiron 


THE  RED  MARK  129 

still  to  be  crossed.  Three  little  weeks,  Dumail !  .  .  . 
And  then  your  sacred  luck  offered  to  trip  you  up  and 
cheat  you  again.  .  .  .  Rigolo  —  what?" 

"  Very  rigolo,"  I  agreed,  luring  him.  "  But  it  seems 
to  me  you  are  borrowing  your  effects  from  the  martyr 
dom  of  the  holy  St.  Laurent." 

"  Oh,  I  have  a  stranger  impersonation  than  that  in 
my  repertoire,"  he  flashed.  "  Conceive,  if  you  can, 
that  I  am  also  supposed  to  fill  the  role  of  a  seigneur  — 
and  a  very  noble  gentlemen,  too  —  in  disguise !  " 

Perched  there  on  the  chair  with  a  dirty  towel  about 
his  neck,  his  hair  in  a  wisp,  smeared  like  a  clown  and 
preaching  his  gentility,  he  made  a  figure  completely 
comic  —  should  I  say?  —  or  tragic.  Anyway  I  gave 
a  gesture  of  derision  that  stung  him  past  endur 
ance. 

"  Dumail  — "  he  broke  out.  "  You  laugh  ?  Dumail, 
will  you  believe  this?  There  is  awaiting  me  back 
home  at  the  present  moment  a  heritage  of  millions. 
Of  millions,  I  swear  to  you!  Not  the  treasure  of  an 
opium  dream,  Dumail,  but  a  place  ready  established 
among  the  great  and  the  fortunate.  For  me :  Number 
Matricule  2232 !  Life  is  a  gondola,  do  you  see  ?  Lux 
ury,  leisure,  rank.  Beauty.  Women.  Happiness! 
Everything  a  poor  lost  devil  could  crave ! " 

Well,  you  know,  it  was  a  bit  too  much  for  me. 

"  Comedian !  "  I  applauded.    "  Ah-ah  —  comedian !  " 

A  sort  of  fury  took  him.  All  else  forgotten,  he 
jerked  loose  the  collar  of  his  jacket:  made  to  spread 
it  wide  —  checked  himself  and  instead  drew  out  from 
his  breast  an  object  for  my  inspection. 

I  had  view  of  a  miniature :  one  of  those  cherubic 
heads  on  ivory  that  relate  to  the  model,  perhaps,  as  a 
promise  relates  to  a  fact  in  this  naughty  world.  Never 
theless  I  could  trace  a  sort  of  semblance  to  that  roguish 
front  as  it  might  have  seemed  in  childhood  —  all  ring 
lets  and  innocence,  cerulean  eye  and  carmine  cheek  — 


130       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

the  whole  encircled  by  a  double  row  of  pearls :  Bibi-Ri 
himself. 

"  My  title  deed." 

I  was  impressed.  Impossible  to  deny  a  richness  in 
this  miniature.  And  while  the  likeness  was  thin  the 
pearls  were  indubitable.  Still  — 

"  Blagueur !  "  I  murmured.  "  Where  did  you  snaffle 
it?" 

Gloomily  he  regarded  me.  "  You  are  like  the  others. 
Always  while  I  was  kicking  about  the  gutters  or  the 
jail  it  was  that  way.  No  one  would  listen.  Another 
of  Bibi-Ri's  jokes!  And  I  lacked  any  clew  to  this 
trinket:  my  single  poor  inheritance.  .  .  .  But  now  — 
look!  These  queer  signs  on  the  reverse.  They  have 
been  deciphered.  Oh,  an  unbelievable  stroke  of  chance ! 
Of  course  I  have  much  to  learn.  The  name  of  the 
family.  My  own  true  name  itself.  But  at  least  I  am 
in  the  way  of  proof  and  this  time  I  was  going  to  win ! 
...  A  famished  man  —  a  man  famished  since  his  birth, 
Dumail  —  is  set  before  a  boundless  feast.  Does  he 
joke  about  that?" 

"  Perhaps  not,"  I  admitted.    "  Go  on." 

"  But  I  am  showing  you  what  Life  means  to  me ! " 

"And  M.  de  Nou — ?"  I  reminded  him. 

He  shuddered :  his  head  dropped  upon  his  breast. 

"M.  de  Nou  —  is  Death!" 

Well,  you  know,  this  was  all  very  thrilling  for  emo 
tion,  but  as  a  statement  it  left  something  to  be  desired. 

"Answer  me,"  I  commanded.  "  Have  you  killed  any 
one?" 

"No!" 

"  Is  there  another  sentence  hanging  over  you  ?  Have 
you  some  stain  on  your  prison  record  ?  " 

"  None." 

"Whom  have  you  wronged?" 

"  Nobody." 

"  Then  sacred  pig !     It  is  only  a  folly  of  nerves 


THE  RED  MARK  131 

after  all !  Just  because  you  expect  to  cash  your  mil 
lions  and  swim  in  champagne  at  last?  .  .  .  Bear  up 
under  it,  my  boy.  Stiffen  your  lip !  Faith,  you  might 
be  a  missing  dauphin  or  even  the  Red  Mark  himself  — 
as  people  say  —  and  still  you  could  meet  your  luck 
with  a  little  courage !  " 

Like  a  jack  on  wires  Bibi-Ri  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"True!"  he  laughed,  shrill.  "You  are  right,  Du- 
mail.  You  are  the  friend  in  need !  .  .  .  Where  is  that 
blessed  mop,  to  dry  my  face  at  least.  So!  I'm  off! 
.  .  .  But  to-night  —  what?  I  owe  you  something,  Du- 
mail :  you  and  your  curiosity !  To-night  you  shall 
come  behind  the  scenes.  If  you  dare.  Understood  ?  " 
He  wheeled  at  the  step :  his  eyes  held  their  old 
twinkling  deviltry.  "  I  was  a  thief  before  I  was  ever 
a  gentleman,"  he  said,  with  his  wried  grin,  "  and  I  can 
still  play  that  farce  to  its  end  —  get  through  and  done 
with  it  and  pull  out  once  for  all!  ...  You  shall  see 
for  yourself !  " 

Thereupon  he  left  me  to  the  haze  of  bewilderment 
in  which  I  lived  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Now  you  can  imagine  without  much  telling  that  we 
have  ways  —  we  convicts  assigned  here  and  there  on 
service  —  to  conduct  our  own  underground  affairs  in 
despite  authority.  Unnecessary  to  explain  these  little 
evasions.  Enough  to  say  my  client  was  as  good  as  his 
word  that  evening.  Enough  to  say  that  under  misty 
stars,  while  the  military  of  the  watch  were  safely 
watching,  Bibi-Ri  crept  out  of  town  by  forbidden 
paths :  and  that  I  crept  along  with  him. 

Inland  from  Noumea  for  a  wide  district  is  all  one 
checkerboard  of  gardens  and  small  estates  where 
liberes  and  convict  proprietors  —  the  aristocrats  of  our 
settlement  —  enjoy  their  snug  retreat.  Not  being  a 
reformed  bandit  myself,  skilled  in  agriculture  and 
piety,  I  was  strange  to  this  countryside.  But  Bibi-Ri 
had  the  key.  I  could  only  tag  at  his  heels  through 


132       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

blind  plantations  and  admire  his  silence  and  his  speed. 
Truly,  as  he  said,  he  was  taking  me  behind  the  scenes : 
until  at  last,  in  a  grove  of  flamboyants  that  wrapped 
the  night  with  darker  webbing,  he  set  hand  to  a  door. 

For  all  I  knew  it  could  have  opened  on  the  Pit  it 
self:  but  a  shaft  of  light  guided  me  stumbling  into  a 
stone-flagged  kitchen,  low  and  dim  and  smoky  in  fact 
as  some  lesser  inferno. 

By  the  hearth  a  woman  turned  from  tending  the 
kettle  to  overlook  us  steadily.  She  was  alone,  but  my 
faith!  she  had  no  need  to  fear.  Figure  to  yourself 
this  massive  sibyl  with  a  face  planned  on  a  mason's 
square,  deep-chiselled  and  brooding  in  the  flush  of  fire 
light.  She  was  like  that.  Yes,  a  sibyl  in  her  cave,  to 
whom  Bibi-Ri  entered  gingerly  as  a  cat. 

"  I  am  here,  Mother  Carron,"  he  said. 

Then  for  sure  and  for  the  first  time  I  saw  where  we 
stood.  Mother  Carron !  In  Noumea  —  through  all 
the  obscure  complex  of  convict  life  —  no  name  bore 
more  significance:  or  less,  in  the  official  sense.  For 
she  had  no  number.  Consider  what  that  means  to  a 
community  of  jailbirds.  The  finger  of  the  law  had 
never  touched  her.  Consider  how  singular  in  a  coun 
try  of  keepers  and  felons! 

She  was  a  free  colonist.  Her  husband,  a  distin 
guished  housebreaker,  had  been  transported  some  years 
before.  Whereupon  she  had  had  the  hardihood  — 
sufficient  if  you  like !  —  to  immigrate,  to  claim  a  con 
cession  and  to  have  that  same  husband  assigned  her 
as  a  convict  laborer. 

Since  then  she  had  wielded  a  curious  power.  Her 
size,  her  tongue,  her  knowledge  of  crime  and  criminals 
and  her  contempt  of  them  all  —  these  made  her  for 
midable.  But  also  it  was  whispered  that  queer  things 
went  on  at  her  plantation  under  the  flamboyant  trees : 
a  famous  rendezvous  where  no  prying  agent  ever  found 
a  shred  of  evidence  —  against  her  or  any  one  else.  Sue- 


THE  RED  MARK  133 

cessful  escapes  had  been  decided  there,  they  said.  And 
disputes  of  convict  factions  that  troubled  no  other 
court,  and  even  politics  of  the  underworld  at  home, 
referred  to  certain  great  ones  among  us.  Our  inner 
conclave  of  transportes —  so  dread  and  secret  that  to 
be  identified  a  member  brings  solitary  confinement  in 
the  black  cells  —  had  assembled  there  to  seek  her 
counsel.  Had  demurred  to  it  and  been  routed  with 
her  broom  whisking  about  their  ears,  if  rumor  spoke 
true.  For  she  was  a  lady  of  weighty  ways. 

Me,  I  was  glad  to  slip  aside  unchallenged.  I  had 
no  desire  to  linger  between  that  dame  and  the  pur 
pose,  whatever  it  might  be,  that  dwelt  in  the  fixity  of 
her  frown.  As  a  spectator  I  blotted  myself  in  the 
shadows,  to  attend  the  next  act  of  this  hidden  and 
somber  drama. 

"  Monsieur,"  she  began,  with  an  affectation  wholly 
foreign  to  her  rough  voice,  "  I  have  the  felicity  to  in 
form  you  that  our  beloved  Zelie  is  home  from  Fon- 
whary  again." 

"  I  knew  it,"  murmured  Bibi-Ri. 

"  She  resides  at  present  under  this  poor  roof." 

He  cast  a  nervous  glance  toward  the  stairway.  "  I 
knew  that,"  he  said. 

"  Ah  ?  You  know  so  much  ?  After  staying  away  so 
long?  .  .  .  We  began  to  doubt  it." 

She  came  to  plant  herself  before  him,  and  the  effect 
of  her  politeness  was  like  a  bludgeon. 

"  In  that  case  be  kind  enough  to  sit,  Monsieur  Bibi- 
Ri.  Dear  little  Monsieur  Bibi-Ri:  we  have  missed 
you !  Be  seated.  You  bring  your  pockets  full  of  news, 
it  seems." 

But  it  seemed  on  the  other  hand,  not  so.  I  saw  my 
companion  brace  himself.  Evidently  this  was  his 
stage-play:  the  ordeal  he  had  now  to  meet. 

"  You  must  excuse  me,  Madame.  I  cannot  remain 
and  I  have  no  news.  .  .  .  Except  that  I  drop  this 


134      WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

business  on  the  spot.     Like  a  live  coal,  Madame ! ?' 

His  whimsy  might  have  disarmed  any  other. 

"  I  have  done  my  best  with  Zelie.  Sad !  Somehow 
she  fails  to  perceive  any  longer  my  true  charm.  .  .  . 
You  had  sent  me  mysterious  word,  Madame,  of  some 
danger  to  which  you  said  she  was  drifting.  Well  — 
seeing  her  in  the  public  market  to-day  I  sought  to 
question  her :  at  the  least  to  give  her  brotherly  advice. 
Madame  —  she  repulsed  me.  Like  that!  Would 
neither  talk  nor  listen.  Said  we  were  watched.  Said 
it  was  not  safe. 

"  Sapristi !  .  .  .  You  can  believe  I  was  ready  to  quit 
then  and  there !  But  presently  I  found  a  better  reason 
—  if  I  needed  one,  Madame.  For  casting  about,  per 
plexed  as  I  was,  of  a  sudden  I  recognized  —  can  you 
guess?  Why  the  man!  The  individual  you  expected 
to  send  me  against,  I  imagine.  From  whom  I  am 
supposed  to  guard  her,  perhaps !  I  saw  him. 

"  After  that :  enough  and  many  thanks ! "  he 
laughed,  with  a  catch  in  his  throat.  "  No  place  for 
Bibi!  Finished.  Rien  ne  va  plus!  .  .  .  For  who  am 
I  to  chase  any  maid  so  unwilling?  And  at  the  same 
time  who  am  I  and  what  should  I  be  doing  —  in  my 
present  station,  Madame  —  to  cross  the  little  harmless 
fancies  of  such  a  personage?  ...  It  was  M.  de  Nou!  " 
he  cried. 

Still  she  made  no  move. 

"  And  so  —  Bibi-Ri  retires,"  he  concluded,  unstead 
ily,  edging  for  his  exit.  "  I  withdraw !  You  can  find 
someone  better  fitted.  My  time  is  up.  My  ship  sails 
soon.  I  will  not  need  to  come  again,  I  think.  In 
parting  — " 

"  What !  "  It  was  like  the  break  of  a  banking  storm. 
"What  did  you  sing  me  there?  'Not  come  again?' 
Forty  devils!  Do  you  know  if  you  hadn't  come  to 
night  in  answer  to  my  message  I  would  have  had  you 
haled  by  the  leg?  .  .  .  Why  you  two  sous'  worth! 


THE  RED  MARK  135 

You  think  to  employ  your  sneaking  pickpocket  tricks 
on  me?  To  decamp  with  the  prize  I  taught  you  to 
use:  and  pay  nothing  for  it?" 

There  was  incredulity  in  her  wrath :  the  measure 
of  her  rude  mastery. 

"  Before  God !  Where  did  you  get  the  courage  to 
try  that?"  she  marvelled.  "As  if  I  had  not  trouble 
enough  already  with  the  other  stubborn  brat  herself. 
And  now  you!  .  .  .  Have  you  altogether  forgotten 
that  I  betrothed  you  myself  to  my  niece  —  my  own 
dead  sister's  child  —  when  she  came  visiting  from  the 
church  school  at  Fonwhary  some  weeks  ago?" 

"  You  said  it  was  so,"  admitted  Bibi-Ri,  squirming. 

"  Good !  Then  you  can  wager  it  was  so,  my  boy. 
.  .  .  And  at  that  time  did  you  or  did  you  not  strike 
a  solemn  bargain  with  me?" 

He  made  no  denial. 

"  You  wept  —  sacred  pipe !  You  called  every  saint 
to  witness  your  gratitude.  Anything  I  wanted!  Zelie? 
Of  course.  You  would  always  be  the  defense  of  that 
precious  infant  against  the  taint  and  the  curse  of 
Noumea ! " 

He  shrugged. 

"  You  swore  by  your  own  hope  of  salvation  to  save 
her  —  to  pluck  this  pure  flower  from  the  dung-hill  and 
marry  her  the  very  hour  of  your  release.  Your  bridal 
trip  should  carry  her  away  to  France.  .  .  .  Are  these 
your  words  ?  " 

"I  offered  to,"  he  retorted.  "But  Zelie  refused 
even  then  —  you  know  she  did !  And  so  she  has  since." 

"  Fichtre !  You  and  your  offers !  Tell  me  —  from 
the  day  you  discovered  your  heritage  have  you  ever 
been  back  to  persuade  her?" 

He  avoided  that  stern  eye. 

"  There  it  is,  you  see !  "  She  gave  an  eloquent  ges 
ture.  "  As  for  her  —  leave  her  to  me.  She  is  only  a 
stiff-necked  little  idiot  who  knows  nothing.  You 


136       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

should  have  made  up  her  mind  for  her.  Youl  I 
picked  you  for  that :  and  you  were  willing  enough  be 
fore.  But  straightway :  instead :  what  did  you  do  ? 
.  .  .  Why  you  began  to  swell  up  over  notions  of  your 
coming  greatness!  That  is  what  happened  to  you. 
Shrimp !  Can't  I  read  your  soul  ? 

"  Suddenly  you  found  yourself  to  be  a  somebody ! 
Ambition  grew  in  you  like  a  mushroom.  Not  good 
enough  —  Zelie,  of  New  Caledonia !  She  might  handi 
cap  you  in  your  fine  career.  You  beheld  a  glorious  fu 
ture  that  had  no  place  for  her.  But  who  opened  that 
prospect?  Cre  tonnerre!  Who  sold  it  you?  Who 
deciphered  the  miniature?  Who  but  I? 

"And  now  at  last,  when  the  girl  falls  in  deadly 
peril  —  as  much  through  pique  as  through  mere  blind 
ness,  be  sure  of  it !  —  when  I  call  you  to  redeem  your 
pledge  and  protect  her :  you  quit !  You  '  withdraw ' ! 
You  decide  to  use  your  new  airs  and  graces  and  pull 
your  feet  out  of  the  wet!  Because  you  prefer  the  ex 
cuse  of  a  coward  to  that  of  a  traitor  —  Monsieur  — • 
is  that  it?" 

Her  fist  hit  the  table  like  a  sledge. 

"  Faineant !  .  .  .  Unless  you  brand  yourself  as 
shamefully  as  any  Red  Mark  that  ever  lived.  .  .  .  Sit 
down ! " 

He  had  been  sidling,  bit  by  bit :  he  had  taken  himself 
almost  to  the  door-sill:  but  under  that  tone  of 
thunder  —  under  that  sudden  amazing  and  cryptic 
jibe  —  he  started,  he  faltered,  he  obeyed.  She  bulked 
above  him  and  it  was  about  this  time  I  began  truly  to 
be  sorry  for  my  harlequin  friend. 

It  was  plain  enough  by  this  time,  you  understand, 
that  I  was  witnessing  one  of  those  obscure  human 
tangles  which  ravel  themselves  in  the  depths  of  a  penal 
society.  Possible  nowhere  else,  I  suppose.  Yet  its 
threads  were  the  passions  and  its  center  was  the  heart : 
and  poor  Bibi-Ri  no  poorer  hero  than  you  or  I  or  any 


THE  RED  MARK  137 

of  us  might  prove.  At  this  point  he  had  fallen  back  to 
his  defense:  sullen,  awed,  but  also  intently  curious  of 
her.  How  she  expected  to  force  him  to  her  design  I 
could  not  guess.  But  breathlessly  I  watched  while  she 
wove  about  him  and  about. 

Back  by  the  hearth  she  stood  meditative  for  a  space 
in  silence :  a  dim  presence  in  that  room  where  the  kettle 
hissed  and  gave  off  its  vapors  —  of  brewing  fates,  per 
haps. 

"  Give  me  a  man  if  he  be  a  bad  one.  A  man  who 
can  stand  to  his  game  two  days  on  end  —  how  do  they 
put  it:  those  savants? — 'developing  his  capabilities/ 
Ah!  Not  like  these  others.  Waffles!  Half-baked. 
Mixed  with  small  impulses  good  and  evil.  Let  him  be 
saint  or  devil,  so  he  develop  that  capability.  Let  me 
see  him  anyway  stand  to  it!  ...  As  I  have  seen  a 
few: 

"  I  remember  many  years  ago  at  the  prison  of 
Mazas,"  she  went  on,  as  if  in  casual  retrospect,  "  they 
kept  a  certain  famous  captive.  Myself,  I  was  never  a 
resident  there  —  no  thanks !  —  I  prefer  the  comforts  of 
honesty.  But  my  one  sister,  now  dead,  she  was  begin 
ning  her  own  silly  career  about  then.  She  lacked  the 
brains  to  steer  it  safe.  So  for  a  time  she  inhabited 
that  same  institution.  And  one  day  as  we  went  by  the 
visitors'  room  she  pinched  my  arm  to  look. 

"  '  There  goes  the  wickedest  man  in  France/  she  said. 

"  Down  the  courtyard  came  a  dozen  of  gendarmes 
parading  a  prisoner.  That  was  a  devil  —  if  you  like! 
That  was  a  type  —  for  example.  Tall  and  fierce  and 
unbeaten,  with  the  eyes  of  a  tiger.  Once  to  see  him  was 
never  to  forget  him  again.  .  .  .  While  he  was  still 
newly-caught  they  had  always  to  guard  him  that  way 
lest  he  slay  some  one  with  his  manacled  fists. 

"  He  belonged  to  the  very  oldest  stock  of  the  South, 
it  appeared:  the  old  high  noblesse.  And  was  he  rich? 
And  proud?  You  can  believe  it.  But  also  he  was  a 


138       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT   ENDS 

great  criminal  such  as  walks  the  earth  every  while 
or  so  to  remind  us  after  all  how  short  a  journey  it  is 
to  hell.  A  true  devil.  My  sister  knew  him.  She  had 
been  a  servant  in  the  household.  She  knew  his  whole 
story  —  which  soon  was  hushed,  I  can  tell  you :  a 
scandal  too  black  to  publish." 

Her  voice  rose  a  rumbling  note  under  the  vault. 

"  Messieurs,  never  mind  the  rest  of  the  tale  at  pres 
ent.  But  inquire  only  this:  Did  they  slay  him?  Did 
they  give  him  his  deserts?  .  .  .  Oh,  naturally  not  — 
else  where  is  the  use  of  Noumea!  We  must  suppose 
those  savants  were  glad  of  the  specimen.  '  The  wicked 
est  man  ' —  do  you  see  ?  And  as  for  him :  he  was  strong. 
And  cunning  to  seize  his  opoprtunities.  And  above  all 
true  to  his  own  devilment.  So  he  won  reprieve,  Mes 
sieurs.  They  preserved  him.  They  shipped  him  out 
to  this  tropic  forcing  house  of  ours  —  to  let  him  keep 
on  developing !  .  .  .  And  he  has.  He  does.  My  faith ! 
With  the  approval  of  the  Administration.  With  all 
kinds  of  special  privileges  and  gratifications ! " 

She  moved  from  the  shadow  again. 

"Why  do  you  tell  me  this?"  demanded  Bibi-Ri, 
hoarsely. 

"  For  your  instruction,  Bibi-Ri,"  she  returned,  with 
her  tone  of  intolerable  significance.  "  To  show  you 
how  one  man  stood  to  it.  Admirable  —  eh?  ...  A 
moment  ago  you  spoke  of  his  '  harmless  fancies.' 
Well:  he  gluts  them.  He  gets  what  he  wants.  A 
fancy  of  pride?  Behold  him  in  his  black  coat  and  his 
lofty  office!  A  fancy  for  blood?  From  time  to  time 
he  stands  to  spill  it  publicly  on  the  scaffold !  A  fancy 
for  young  and  innocent  flesh  —  a  solace  to  his  old 
age?  .  .  .  Do  you  imagine  he  would  be  balked  of  that? 
Or  rather  are  you  prepared  to  hear  how  —  with  of 
ficial  permission  and  even  the  clerical  benediction  — 
how  he  manages  to  bedevil  and  to  win  the  particular 
young  girl  of  his  choice?" 


THE  RED  MARK  139 

In  hammer  blows  she  planted  each  phrase. 

"  How  this  same  man  has  let  no  grass  grow  under 
his  feet  in  his  little  rivalry  with  yourself,  Bibi-Ri ! " 

She  spared  him  nothing. 

"  How,  having  desired  your  Zelie  without  '  ifs '  or 
'  buts '  he  found  means  to  make  his  purpose  good, 
Bibi-Ri !  " 

He  could  only  gape  at  her. 

"  How  he  followed  her  to  Fonwhary :  how  he  fol 
lowed  her  back :  how  he  missed  no  trick  of  persuading 
and  persisting:  how  he  finally  forced  her  consent  like 
any  true  lover  in  this  very  house  this  morning!" 

"  It  is  not  possible !  "  gasped  Bibi-Ri. 

"  Eh  ?  It  is  true  of  true !  "  she  trumpeted.  "  Name 
of  God  —  where  do  you  think  you  are?  This  is 
Noumea!  .  .  .  Let  her  pass  for  a  fool  —  half-mad 
with  bitterness  and  chagrin  though  she  be  —  and  still 
you  must  admit  it  is  not  every  poor  orphan  who  gets 
such  a  chance  hereabouts.  What?  To  occupy  a  little 
manor  outside  the  prison  grounds.  To  enjoy  the  little 
benefits  of  official  standing.  To  wear  the  pretty  trifles 
of  jewelry,  the  rings  and  keepsakes  and  lockets,  that 
fall  to  the  master's  share  every  time  he  strikes  off  a 
lucky  head !  .  .  .  Dieu !  .  .  .  Can  you  picture  to  your 
self  the  home-coming  at  that  menage  after  a  day's 
honest  labor?  To  be  sure,  she  might  require  him  first 
to  wash  his  hands  for  fear  of  spoiling  her  new  gown ! 
But  these  stains  of  the  trade  —  what  do  they  matter? 
And  so  your  Zelie,  your  sweet  pigeon,  your  simple 
Caledonienne  who  was  all  too  simple  for  you  —  whom 
you  cast  aside  with  '  brotherly  advice  ' —  she  chooses 
to  embrace  that  ghoul,  that  hell-hound,  that  old  satyr 
of  all  the  infamies.  .  .  .  To-morrow  she  weds  with  M. 
de  Nou ! " 

In  blind  distress  he  stumbled  to  his  feet  and  shied 
from  her  with  hands  outspread  to  fend  away  the  mon 
strous  thing.  But  skillfully  she  headed  him  around  to 


140       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  brought  him  face  to  face 
with  the  actual  vision  descending  there. 

"  Ask  her  yourself !  "  .  .  . 

You  have  seen  those  figures  in  a  window  of  old 
stained  glass  which  leap  from  the  haze  of  color  as  if 
illumined  of  themselves.  The  girl  who  waited  just 
above  us  on  the  step  bore  that  same  transparent  love 
liness,  with  all  the  fleshy  promise  of  my  glimpse  of  her 
in  the  market.  She  wore  a  single  belted  garment  of 
some  white  peasant's  stuff,  but  nothing  could  have 
suited  better  in  the  somber  light  of  that  place,  smoke- 
blued  against  smoky  walls.  In  truth  it  might  have 
seemed  the  subtlest  coquetry  to  clothe  such  beauty  in 
the  coarsest  garb.  For  she  herself  was  delicate  as  a 
bud.  Vital  and  lithe:  with  a  close-set  casque  of  jet 
hair,  mouth  like  a  crushed  mulberry  against  satin, 
mutinous  eyes  and  chin :  the  wild,  slight,  heavy- 
scented  flower  of  these  climes. 

There  she  stood  quite  coolly:  even  laguidly. 

"Visitors?"  she  inquired,  aware  of  us  with  imper 
sonal  gaze.  "  I  wondered  if  any  would  stop  to-night. 
It  would  be  kind  of  them  to  come  and  wish  me  happi 
ness." 

Except  that  she  spoke  unsmiling  and  ignored  Bibi- 
Ri,  except  for  her  deathly  pallor,  she  seemed  without 
the  least  consciousness  of  a  terrible  irony.  And  when 
my  poor  friend  made  some  sound  in  his  throat  her  pure 
brow  clouded  a  bit :  she  pouted. 

"  Have  you  been  making  yourself  tiresome  again 
with  the  visitors,  Maman?  Now  where  is  the  good 
of  that?  I  wish  you  would  not  start  fretting  with 
everybody.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  shall  be  married.  Yes,  I  shall 
be  married  to-morrow.  By  special  civil  license  and 
by  the  priest  from  La  Foa.  There !  It  is  all  settled. 
...  I  hope  you  can  find  something  more  amusing  for 
our  guests." 

Incredible  to  see  how  quiet  she  was,  how  composed, 


THE  RED  MARK  141 

how  youthfully  unstrained.  Only  when  her  heavy  lids 
swept  over  Bibi-Ri  and  their  glances  crossed  could  you 
detect  like  electric  charges  the  unacknowledged  tension 
behind. 

"  Oh,  for  amusement,"  chuckled  Mother  Carron, 
with  a  savage  humor,  "  Bibi-Ri  is  amused :  right 
enough.  Sacred  stove  —  yes !  .  .  .  Only  he  says  the 
affair  is  impossible." 

For  the  first  time  Zelie  regarded  him  fairly. 

"  I  see  no  reason  why  any  one  should  think  so.  Un 
less  he  forgets  —  as  I  never  do  any  more  —  that  I  am 
the  daughter  of  convicts." 

Ah,  there  was  steel  in  that  girl!  What?  The  way 
she  said  it!  Very  simply.  Without  rancor,  you  un 
derstand.  Letting  it  bite  of  itself.  Without  a  quaver 
from  that  crisis  of  despair  in  which  she  must  have 
learned  to  say  it.  In  a  flash  I  knew  how  the  gleaming, 
soft  full-blooded  slip  of  a  creature  had  stood  up 
against  this  tremendous  aunt  of  hers.  And  could 
stand.  And  would!  .  .  .  And  Bibi-Ri:  he  knew  too. 
His  babbling  protest  died  cold  on  his  lips. 

"  My  convict  father  married  my  convict  mother  in 
this  convict  country,"  she  went  on,  evenly.  "  I  was 
born  here.  I  must  live  and  die  here.  I  could  never 
look  to  marry  outside  —  could  I  ?  ....  They  would 
say  I  was  tainted.  .  .  .  For  the  rest  —  well,  I  have 
only  to  please  myself,  I  believe." 

And  mother  Carron  nodded  like  a  grim  showman. 

"Eh?  What  do  you  think  of  that?  A  wise  in 
fant —  eh?  Could  anything  be  more  just  and  reason 
able?" 

And  it  was  so.  She  was  right.  It  was  perfectly 
just:  perfectly  reasonable.  There  you  had  the  stark 
and  appalling  fact.  For  this  is  Noumea  —  as  Mother 
Carron  reminded  us  in  good  season.  This  is 
Noumea  —  the  Noah's  Ark  toy  of  penology.  If  you 
expect  your  convicts  to  par  off  and  to  breed  like  free 


142       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

folk,  you  must  expect  their  children  likewise  to  couple 
as  they  can  —  or  will :  free  folks  themselves.  And  with 
whom?  Where  do  you  draw  the  line?  What  kind  of 
a  social  formula  have  you  left  for  the  second  genera 
tion,  reared  in  an  out-door  jail?  Our  wise  philanthro 
pists  who  devised  the  experiment:  I  wonder  if  they 
ever  thought  so  far  ahead.  They  should  have  been 
interested  in  Zelie  —  the  perfect  product. 

Meanwhile  there  remained  my  companion  —  Bibi-Ri. 
Poor  Bibi-Ri.  .  .  .  Whatever  had  passed  between  him 
and  that  unhappy  deluded  child  I  could  not  know,  you 
comprehend  —  in  truth  I  never  did  know.  But  they 
must  have  been  very  close  at  one  time :  those  two :  be 
fore  his  great  ambition  nipped  him.  He  was  suffer 
ing.  He  writhed.  Nevertheless  I  saw  it  was  going 
to  make  no  difference  with  him.  .  .  .  Not  now.  Not 
this  late  along.  I  sensed  his  effort.  I  heard  him 
draw  his  breath  sharp  like  a  man  who  plucks  the  barb 
from  the  wound. 

"  One  moment,  Madame !  "  He  avoided  Zelie.  In 
abrupt  and  flurried  speech  he  addressed  himself  to 
Mother  Carron.  "  A  moment,  Madame  —  I  beg. 
This  is  mere  madness.  And  painful.  And  unneces 
sary.  .  .  .  The  is  still  one  easy  way  out  for  her,  you 
know  —  for  Zelie,  for  me,  for  everybody.  Still  a 
way." 

She  unbent  to  him  all  at  once  as  to  a  prodigal  son. 

"Tiens!"  she  cried.    "You  have  perceived  it?" 

"  I  have  remembered.  I  intended  not  to  tell  you : 
to  let  it  come  of  itself.  And  truly  —  you  drove  it 
somewhat  out  of  mind.  But  now  — " 

"At  last!" 

"  If  we  can  only  get  Zelie  to  listen  — " 

"  Ha !    Just  look  at  her  there !  " 

"  It  fits  the  need." 

"  She  never  had  but  one,  my  boy  —  to  hear  you 
speak  out  once  like  this :  as  if  you  meant  it." 


THE  RED  MARK  143 

"  And  besides,"  he  stammered,  "  it  should  cancel 
any  —  any  obligations  you  might  still  hold  against  me, 
myself." 

"  Parbleu !    I  should  hope  so !  " 

He  labored  on,  with  a  kind  of  desperate  snuffle. 

"  At  the  end,  Madame,  we  can  always  turn  for  aid 
to  the  Church  —  the  patient  friend  of  us  all.  .  .  . 
This  afternoon  —  uneasy  about  Zelie,  I  confess,  and 
thinking  a  decisive  step  would  be  best  for  every  one  — 
this  very  afternoon  I  took  myself  to  St.  Gregory's  and 
there  I  saw  — " 

"  Bibi-Ri :  in  a  moment  I  shall  kiss  you ! " 

"  For  God's  sake  let  me  speak,  Madame !  .  .  .  I  saw 
the  Directress  of  the  Order  of  St.  Joseph  of  Cluny. 
She  heard  me  readily.  You  know  —  these  good  nuns 
—  how  they  rescue  any  they  can  of  the  children  of 
Noumea.  .  .  .  Well :  I  arranged  it.  ...  To-night  a 
travelling  sister  will  visit  you  here.  By  great  luck 
she  is  returning  home  very  soon.  If  the  dispositions 
are  favorable  she  has  promised  to  take  Zelie  at  once,  to 
guard  her  and  to  see  her  safe  —  passage  free  —  to 
France,  where  refuge  and  the  consolations  of  religion, 
Madame,  await  her !  " 

In  the  silence  that  dropped  you  should  have  seen 
Mother  Carron. 

"  Refuge !  "  she  began,  empurpled.  "  What  is  the 
fellow  talking  about?  Conso —  .  .  .  Look  here.  Do 
you  mean  a  convent?" 

"  Of  course,  Madame." 

"A  convent!  In  truth?  Is  this  all  you  have  to 
offer?" 

"  Yes,  Madame." 

She  flung  up  her  arms. 

"  Faith  of  God !  You  dare  to  make  me  ridicule  like 
that?  Animal  low  of  ceiling!  .  .  .  But  no,  I  tell  you, 
but  no!  It  is  too  much.  My  turn  now.  Listen  to 
me,  both.  Listen  to  my  plan!  .  .  .To-day  I  also  went 


144       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

to  St.  Gregory's:  do  you  hear?  I  also  sought  the  aid 
of  Holy  Church,  which  never  refuses  in  the  cause  of 
morality  —  Heaven  be  praised !  —  to  perform  a  convict 
marriage  where  it  can.  I  also  obtained  help.  That 
good  Father  Anselm:  he  also  promised.  He  also  is 
coming  here  to-night !  .  .  .  And  word  of  honor,  I  hope 
to  be  turned  into  a  pepper-mill  if  I  don't  have  him 
marry  the  two  of  you  on  the  spot. " 

One  and  the  other,  she  challenged  them. 

"You  think  not;  you  wilful  imp?"  she  roared.  "I 
tell  you  it  shall  be  so!  ...  And  you,  Bibi-Ri  —  you 
grin  in  that  sickly  fashion?  Wait,  my  gar:  I'm  not 
done  with  you  yet !  Thousand  thunders !  —  in  another 
minute  you  will  be  crawling  at  the  crook  of  my  finger. 
.  .  .  Attend!" 

And  looming  on  us  there,  gigantic  in  the  firelight 
like  some  ancient  fury,  she  launched  her  climax. 

"You  recall  that  tale  I  started  for  your  benefit? 
Well :  there  is  more  of  it.  I  told  you  my  sister  knew 
all  the  story  of  '  the  wickedest  man  '  ?  Well :  there  was 
one  thing  she  did  not  know  and  would  have  given 
much  to  hook  up  —  like  many  another  blackmailer, 
then  and  since.  .  .  .  Note!  .  .  From  the  murderous 
purpose  with  which  that  fiend  pursued  all  in  his 
power  —  wife,  family,  associates  —  it  appears  he 
spared  a  single  victim.  The  creature,  indeed,  in  whom 
he  centered  his  whole  affection  —  to  call  it  so  —  his 
hateful  pride,  at  least.  A  single  one  he  set  aside.  But 
only  to  be  the  instrument  of  a  last  defiance. 

"  Brought  to  exposure,  his  course  run  out :  what  do 
you  suppose  he  did?  Why  he  took  measures  to  con 
ceal  that  remaining  heir  of  his  house  beyond  recov 
ery.  .  .  .  He  put  away  that  son.  He  lost  him !  Com 
pletely.  In  space :  in  the  world :  in  the  crowd  and  the 
gutter.  Where  none  should  ever  find  him  again  — 
as  none  ever  did,  for  all  the  rewards  and  all  the  police. 

"  Such  cleverness  —  eh  ?    Such  logico    For  observe. 


THE  RED  MARK  145 

.  .  .  They  dared  pass  no  death  sentence  while  there 
appeared  any  chance  of  extracting  his  secret.  A  vast 
estate  was  waiting  on  the  person  of  that  child  —  one 
of  the  finest  fortunes  in  France :  the  heritage  of  a 
golden  line.  He  kept  it  waiting.  At  a  stroke  he  saved 
himself  before  the  judges:  he  hid  away  the  only 
treasure  he  loved:  he  prolonged  his  own  evil  destiny 
through  this  unknown  seed  of  his  planted  somewhere 
in  the  mud !  " 

Her  regard  flamed  on  Bibi-Ri. 

"  Unknown  —  my  little  dears.  Unknown  ever  since ! 
.  .  .  Though  it  is  said  Heaven  itself  had  set  its  seal 
on  that  race  for  a  warning  and  a  symbol :  though  the 
child  himself  was  marked  from  birth:  was  marked 
about  the  neck  —  so  the  legend  goes  —  with  a  thin  red 
line  like  the  print  of  a  noose  or  the  trace  of  strangling 
fingers ! " 

Bibi-Ri  had  propped  himself  by  the  table,  one  hand 
clutching  the  close  collar  of  his  jacket. 

"  How  —  how  could  you  guess.  .  .   !  " 

"Ah-ah!  Now  will  you  try  to  throw  us  over?  Not 
so  easily  —  eh?  Now  don't  you  think  you  still  have 
need  of  us?  Until  the  depositions  are  made,  at  least? 
•,  .  .  Sac  a  papier!  The  very  instant  you  showed  me 
that  old  miniature  and  the  initial  it  bears  —  I  knew 
you,  my  boy!  I  could  have  read  you  your  whole  for 
tune  then:  only  I  saved  the  best  of  it  for  a  wedding 
present!  And  for  sure,  I  never  expected  you  to  try 
a  bolt.  A  droll  of  an  idea  —  that!  To  run  away 
from  your  chief  witness  ?  .  .  .  Why,  stupid  one ! " 
She  broke  off  to  drop  him  a  little  mocking  curtsey. 
"  Monsieur  the  Duke !  ...  It  was  my  own  sister  had 
had  the  honor  to  be  Your  Grace's  nurse ! " 

He  was  trembling.  "  Tell  me  the  name  of  that 
family!" 

"  But  certainly,  my  lad.  .  .  .  After  you  are  mar 
ried!" 


146       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

"  Don't  torture  me !  Tell  me  the  name  of  that 
man ! " 

"  But  certainly,  my  love.  ...  It  is  M.  de  Nou ! " 

Strange  how  like  a  sinister  refrain  that  title  —  that 
word  —  ran  and  recurred  throughout  the  affair.  But 
this  time  it  had  an  impact  as  never  before.  Credit  me? 
This  time  it  came  home  to  Bibi-Ri :  and  my  little  joker 
absolutely  reeled  under  it. 

"Eh?"  cried  Mother  Carron.  "Eh?  How  is  your 
sacred  ambition  now?  Is  there  any  manhood  to  you? 
And  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

What  indeed !  She  had  reduced  him  to  a  rag.  For 
this  she  had  played  upon  a  febrile  nature,  you  under 
stand:  had  battered  it,  dazzled  it,  wrung  it  of  emo 
tions:  confirming  his  wildest  beliefs:  destroying  his 
dearest  illusions:  tossing  his  hopes  to  the  stars  and 
smirching  them  in  the  mire  with  the  same  sweep:  — 
that  he  might  have  no  other  will  at  the  end.  .  .  .  And 
therein  appeared  the  triumph  of  her  masterful  certi 
tude.  For  presently  raising  his  miserable  and  hunted 
eyes  he  looked  at  her :  he  looked  for  me  in  the  shadow: 
he  did  not  look  at  Zelie  again  —  but  he  looked  toward 
the  door.  .  .  . 

How  easy  it  might  have  seemed,  after  all !  Actually 
in  his  pocket  he  carried  his  release  ticket,  ready  dated. 
His'ship  lay  in  harbor.  His  sentence  expired  some  few 
days  off.  A  step  would  take  him  into  the  night.  He 
had  simply  to  keep  safe  within  police  limits  until  the 
hour  of  sailing  and  march  himself  freely  on  board. 
And  then  ...  he  had  won!  You  see?  By  his  theory 
the  world  would  open  before  him  the  most  radiant  of 
welcomes.  By  his  faith  he  would  have  his  life-long  ar 
rears  to  collect :  his  gorgeous  dreams  to  realize.  One 
must  have  been  a  felon  —  one  must  have  eaten  his 
heart  in  prison  cells  —  and  even  in  this  widest  and 
farthest  of  prison  cells  with  its  wall  of  painted  hori- 


THE  RED  MARK  147 

zons  none  the  less  alien  and  inexorable  —  to  feel  what 
those  dreams  meant  to  him. 

Now  again,  as  before,  he  had  only  to  get  himself 
off  stage:  he  needed  only  the  boldness  to  break  once 
for  all  with  the  thief's  part  —  as  he  himself  had  said : 
the  selfishness  to  stand  to  his  game  —  as  Mother  Car- 
ron  put  it! 

And  in  truth  what  was  hindering  him?  No  actual 
compulsion:  none  he  need  fear.  Only  impalpable 
things.  Shame.  Uncertainty,  timidity,  regret.  The 
pressures  of  personality.  The  qualms  of  a  poor  jug 
gler  with  life :  fearful  of  missing  —  fearful  of  not  seiz 
ing  it  featly.  .  .  .  Cobwebs  all! 

What  he  would  have  done  about  it  the  good  God  can 
tell.  I  have  asked  myself  often  enough.  But  he  hesi 
tated  a  bit  too  long:  that  little  fool  of  fortune  with 
his  face  of  a  rubber  puppet  squeezed  by  fate.  Next 
moment  the  cue  had  been  taken  from  him,  for  across 
the  pause  ran  a  thin,  keen  whistle.  Mother  Carron 
spun  around.  And  as  if  dispatched  on  that  breath  — 
through  the  key-hole,  perhaps  —  there  blew  in  sud 
denly  among  us  from  the  back  of  the  house  somewhere 
a  tiny,  gray-faced,  white-haired  wraith  of  a  man. 

"Well  — idiot?  .  .  .  What's   up   now?" 

From  her  greeting,  as  from  the  blurred  effacement  of 
the  apparition  himself,  one  divined  without  trouble  the 
person  of  that  former  redoubtable  housebreaker :  Car 
ron.  In  a  voice  scarcely  above  the  singing  of  the  ket 
tle  he  made  his  announcement. 

"  There  are  two  coming  by  the  road." 

"Hey?"  she  bawled.     "What  two?" 

"  A  priest  and  another." 

Mother  Carron  smiled  the  only  smile  to  pass  upon 
her  wintry  front  that  night :  she  spread  her  hands  be 
fore  us. 

"  Enfin!  What  did  I  tell  you?  And  in  great  good 
time,  my  word!  .  .  .  You  hear  that  —  you  others? 


148       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

...  Go  and  welcome  Father  Anselm,  fool !  And  fetch 
out  the  wine,  if  you  are  able  to  stir  your  pins ! " 

The  shadow  sighed. 

"  It  is  not  Father  Anselm." 

"Not  Father  Anselm?  .  .  .  Imbecile!  Of  course  it 
is!" 

"  It  is  not  Father  Anselm." 

"  Who  then  —  vaurien  ?  " 

"  It  is  the  fat  priest  from  La  Foa." 

Impossible  to  doubt  his  steadfast  whispering. 

"  La  Foa !  "  she  echoed,  stricken.  "  You  say  ?  Not 
truly!  ...  La  Foa?" 

"  I  saw  him." 

"And  another?    What  other?" 

"  We  think  he  is  Bombiste." 

I  can  swear  that  wretched  individual  never  in  his 
black  past  had  handled  a  bomb  with  half  the  effect  his 
mere  nickname  produced  among  us  there. 

"Bombiste!  The  executioner's  assistant?  .  .  .  . 
From  He  de  Nou?  .  .  .  Here?" 

"  They  are  at  the  gate." 

"  Thunder  of  God !  .  .  .  And  above  all,  at  this 
time ! "  She  caught  his  arm.  "  Delay  that  priest ! 
Any  way  and  anyhow :  hold  him !  .  .  .  Confess  to  him, 
if  nothing  else  will  do  —  Heaven  knows  you  need  it ! 
.  .  .  And  let  the  other  through  at  once.  Be  quick ! " 

She  banished  him  like  a  puff  of  smoke  and  we  waited 
in  drawn  suspense  —  we  four  —  our  eyes  on  the  arch 
way  through  which  this  visitant  must  now  appear. 

"What  can  he  want?"  demanded  Mother  Carron. 
"  That  blood-stained  basket  robber !  " 

And  Zelie  answered  her  very  quietly. 

"  I  suppose  he  brings  me  my  message  from  M.  de 
Nou." 

You  will  remember  in  all  my  term  at  Noumea  I 
had  seen  but  once  before  this  ignoble  under-servant 
of  the  guillotine.  I  could  have  preferred  never  to 


THE  RED  MARK  149 

see  him  again.     He  did  not  improve  on  closer  view. 

He  was  one  of  those  creatures  somehow  resembling 
insects:  like  the  ciliate  and  noxious  things  that  run 
about  when  you  lift  a  damp  rock.  You  know?  .  .  . 
Very  black.  Very  hairy,  with  hair  overlaid  in  fringes 
curiously  soft  and  glistening.  With  eyes  very  small, 
round  and  quick  as  beads.  In  person  he  was  mis 
shapen  :  bandy-legged :  but  with  all  that  a  powerful 
ruffian,  whose  long,  crooked  arms  might  have  ended  in 
nippers  like  a  scorpion's. 

There  you  have  the  fellow  Bombiste,  who  presently 
slid  in  at  the  doorway  and  stood  blinking  through  the 
light. 

We  regarded  this  type:  and  he  us.  Did  I  tell  you 
he  called  himself  a  Pole?  I  cannot  say.  But  cer 
tainly  his  speech  was  hardly  to  be  comprehended.  He 
spat  something  that  could  have  passed  equally  for  a 
greeting  or  a  curse.  And  so  far  he  had  the  advantage 
of  us :  for  any  reply  of  ours  would  have  been  only  the 
half  of  that. 

To  do  her  justice  Mother  Carron  kept  a  bold  front 
to  him.  But  she  was  handling  here  a  very  different 
sort  of  brute  —  not  to  be  reached  by  that  singular  in 
fluence  she  exerted  on  the  convict  community  at  large : 
himself  an  outcast  among  convicts :  sharing  the  isola 
tion  of  his  detested  master  on  He  de  Nou.  When  she 
demanded  to  know  his  affair  — 

"  Official !  "  he  snarled  back,  with  his  slit  grin. 

Indeed  it  must  have  been  a  rare  errand  for  him :  a 
rare  jest.  He  affected  in  his  manner  a  gratified  swag 
ger  of  contempt :  natural  enough  for  a  man  with  whom 
the  vilest  felon  would  never  willingly  speak,  you  under 
stand  :  natural  enough  for  one  whose  only  dealing  with 
his  fellows  was  to  valet  their  shorn  bodies  on  the  scaf 
fold  and  to  gather  their  last  poor  trifles  of  property 
for  the  executioner's  wage  —  "  robbing  the  basket,"  as 
we  say. 


150       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

"What  are  you  after?"  persisted  Mother  Carron. 

"  Not  you,  old  woman !  "  he  retorted.  "  Not  any 
of  you,"  he  added  with  brutal  assurance  as  his  glance 
shifted  past  Bibi-Ri  and  myself.  "  But  I  come  to 
see  .  .  .  Mam'zelle  here.  And  Mam'zelle  alone ! " 

Well,  we  had  had  warning,  to  be  sure.  From  this 
welter  of  evil  portents  some  actual  horror  was  due. 
And  my  faith,  he  wasted  little  time  about  it!  He 
passed  us  over  as  if  we  had  been  less  than  nothing. 
He  removed  his  ragged  straw  hat  to  twirl  on  his  finger. 
He  scraped  low  before  the  calm-faced  girl  who  still 
waited  impassive  on  the  stairs.  And  then  and  there 
he  delivered  himself  of  the  message  he  had  been  taught. 
All  at  once.  Even  glibly.  With  a  kind  of  damnable 
sputtering  eloquence. 

"  Mam'zelle  Zelie  —  at  your  service  —  I  bring  you 
this  word  from  my  master :  best  respects  and  affections. 
He  bids  me  say  the  civil  ceremony  will  be  for  to-mor 
row,  as  planned.  But  he  mistrusts  your  clever  aunt  — 
who  might  indeed  try  tricks  to  interfere.  And  so  ... 
you  see  .  .  .  to-night:  straightway:  will  be  the  wed 
ding,  Mam'zelle! 

"  The  priest  is  here.  In  me  behold  one  happy  wit 
ness!  For  the  other — "  He  grinned.  "Perhaps 
Madame  Carron  will  do."  He  thrust  a  thumb  at  Bibi- 
Ri.  "  Or  that  young  buck  yonder.  The  master  him 
self  only  delays  his  impatience  a  few  moments  formally 
to  arrive  when  all  is  ready.  Safely  escorted,  you  can 
believe,  in  this  place  of  so  bad  a  reputation  —  from 
which,  moreover,  he  promises  to  remove  you  at  once." 

To  see  the  rascal  strut,  and  what  airs  he  took ! 

"Meantime,  Mam'zelle  —  in  attending  —  please  will 
you  put  on  your  best  frock  and  prepare  yourself,"  he 
concluded.  "  And  as  your  wedding  gift  .  .  .  the  mas 
ter  has  pleasure  to  send  you  herewith  the  precious 
chains  and  jewels  in  this  box  and  asks  you  to  wear 
them  for  his  sake !  " 


THE  RED  MARK  151 

Throughout  this  stupefying1  recital  none  of  the  rest 
of  us  stirred,  you  will  conceive.  And  when  he  had  done 
we  could  still  only  stare.  A  picture,  if  you  like! 
Zelie,  the  unfortunate  child :  and  there,  distorting  him 
self  in  gallant  gesture,  offering  tribute,  that  foul  am 
bassador!  The  glow  of  fallen  embers  in  the  fire 
smudged  him  with  infernal  fantasy  —  it  lent  her  the 
softest  flush,  making  her  young  beauty  to  quicken  and 
to  kindle.  As  if  a  guilty  angel  should  stoop  from  the 
lower  step  of  heaven  to  take  a  bribe  of  hell.  For  she 
assented :  make  no  mistake.  .  .  .  She  was  going  to  as 
sent.  He  tendered  her  a  small  black  box  of  leather: 
she  had  a  hand  outstretched  to  it  —  when  a  word 
dropped  sheer  and  arresting  in  the  silence  as  a  pebble 
in  a  well. 

It  was  not  Mother  Carron  who  spoke:  our  crafty 
hostess  was  far  too  burdened  just  then  under  the  col 
lapse  of  all  her  craftiness.  Decidedly  it  was  not  me. 
Remained  only  Bibi-Ri.  And  in  truth,  he  it  was : 
though  the  fact  appeared  as  one  of  those  momentary 
incredibilities  of  intercourse. 

"Zelie!" 

Now  I  cannot  pretend  to  know  what  lay  in  the  mind 
of  that  young  girl.  Who  could  plumb  such  a  depth? 
She  had  kept  herself  inscrutable.  How  she  actually 
felt  toward  Bibi-Ri  I  had  no  guess.  She  had  seen  him 
pared  like  a  carrot  —  humiliated  as  few  could  be  — 
his  little  human  folly  and  weakness  exposed,  his  grand 
hopes  and  aspirations  made  sordid  and  slimy.  Even 
his  one  effort,  his  scheme  of  shuffling  her  away  into  a 
convent  which  must  have  seemed  the  sorriest  coward 
ice,  had  surprised  no  motion  from  her.  But  how  she 
regarded  him  now  was  plain.  In  the  slow  lift  of  her 
head,  the  heavy  glitter  of  her  eyes  —  plain  to  read. 

"  Zelie,"  he  said.    "  You  can't  go  on  with  it." 

"No?  "she  inquired.  .  .  .  "No?" 

Some  way  or  other  he  had  taken  up  position  between 


152       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

the  door  and  the  stairs.  .  .  .  Oh,  not  with  any  sort  of 
flash  heroism  —  understand  me.  I  am  not  giving  you 
a  feuilleton  of  melodrama.  But  there  he  put  himself 
and  there  he  stayed. 

Of  course  that  brute  Bombiste  had  bristled  at  the 
first  interruption.  With  a  sign  Zelie  checked  him  short. 
.  .  .  She  was  ready  for  Bibi-Ri.  She  had  been  waiting 
for  Bibi-Ri.  One  knew  it.  One  knew  this  to  be  their 
real  meeting,  and  finally  one  knew  who  was  and  who 
had  been  his  real  opponent.  Here  the  issue  was  joined. 
Between  the  dream  and  the  girl  —  as  you  might  say 
—  here  stood  the  Red  Mark. 

"  You  can't  go  on  with  it,"  he  repeated  in  a  voice, 
after  all  emotions,  that  had  become  almost  matter  of 
fact.  "  It  is  unthinkable.  You  will  not  touch  those 
presents." 

"  I  wonder  if  i  won't,"  she  answered. 

"  They  were  stolen  from  dead  men  — " 

"  Not  so  wicked  as  stealing  heart  and  faith,"  she 
said. 

"  For  this  crime :  worse  than  murder  — " 

"  Not  so  bad  as  killing  a  soul  given  into  your  hand," 
she  said. 

"  By  a  man  the  lowest  of  assassins ! " 

"  Not  so  low,"  she  said,  "  but  that  you  claim  his 
name,  his  blood  and  his  fortune  for  your  own ! " 

Ah,  they  were  striking  at  each  other's  naked  breasts, 
those  two.  With  naked  weapons.  And  neither  of 
them  shirked  it.  Not  the  girl,  who  sent  back  as  good 
as  she  got  —  not  Bibi-Ri,  who  took  even  that  last  ter 
rible  thrust. 

"  Such  things  do  not  happen."  You  would  have 
thought  he  was  putting  a  form  of  statement.  "  All 
else  aside  — "  he  said,  "  all  else  aside,  this  does  not 
happen." 

"  What  can  you  do  or  say  to  prevent  ?  "  she  asked, 
leading  him  by  so  much. 


THE  RED  MARK  153 

"  Anything  you  want  of  me." 

"  I  want  nothing :  it  would  only  be  false." 

"  Anything  you  want  me  to  say." 

"  I  want  to  hear  nothing :  it  would  only  be  lies." 

"  Zelie,"  he  offered,  "  will  you  marry  me?  " 

That  must  have  been  the  test,  you  know.  In  the 
covert,  unproclaimed  struggle  which  had  brought  them 
both  to  this  pass,  that  must  have  been  the  gauge. 
Whatever  thrill  of  satisfied  passionate  resentment  she 
could  have  wished  must  have  been  hers  there  and  then. 

"  Will  you  wed  with  me,  Zelie?  " 

An  exultant  throb  escaoed  her. 

"  Too  late !  "  she  said. 

But  he  was  beyond  flinching. 

"  Let  me  be  sure,"  he  begged.  "  I  was  wrong,  Zelie. 
I  was  blind  and  mad  and  heartless.  I  say  so.  But 
I  give  it  up  —  I  give  up  all  that  foolish  gilded  fancy 
of  mine,  for  I  see  what  true  treasure  it  cost  me.  .  .  . 
Or  look  —  petite  —  I  give  it  up  to  you  and  we  go 
seek  the  future  together.  Heaven  knows  if  it  could 
ever  be  any  worth  to  us  after  —  after  to-night.  But 
it's  all  I  have.  Zelie  .  .  .  take  it  for  my  wedding 
gift!" 

She  looked  him  up  and  she  looked  him  down,  long 
and  steadily. 

"  Comedian !  "  she  said.  .  .  . 

Well  —  it  was  rather  hard.  What?  To  twit  that 
poor  player  at  life  with  his  poor  playing.  At  his  last 
and  best  not  to  believe  him.  At  his  supreme  attempt 
to  throw  in  his  teeth  that  supreme  mockery.  Rather 
hard.  In  effect! 

It  left  him  dumb  —  and  again  across  the  pause,  from 
somewhere  outside,  cut  a  shrill,  thin  whistle.  Again 
came  floating  in  among  us,  from  nowhere  at  all,  the 
spectral  guardian  of  the  gates :  Carron.  Again  from 
a  voice  like  a  piping  wind  at  a  key-hole,  we  heard  the 
news. 


154       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

"  Father  Anselm  has  arrived.  He  is  in  the  basse- 
cour,  with  the  other  priest.  Also  two  sisters  of  St. 
Joseph  of  Cluny,  who  came  with  him." 

"  Father  Anselm !  "  echoed  Mother  Carron,  dully,  in 
a  sort  of  groan.  "  So  much  for  my  plan.  .  .  .  And 
the  sisters?  ...  So  much  for  Bibi's!  We're  all  finely 
cooked,  the  lot  of  us !  "  But  even  in  disaster  she  could 
keep  the  uses  of  habit.  "  Sacred  pig,  you  take  your 
own  time!"  she  scolded.  "Was  that  your  signal?" 

"  Not  for  them,"  sighed  Carron.  "  We  gave  no  sig 
nal  for  them,  seeing  who  they  were.  But  a  carriole  is 
climbing  by  the  road  — " 

In  fact  through  the  heavy  tropic  night  and  the  open 
doorway  there  reached  our  ears  as  we  hearkened  a 
grind  of  wheels,  the  muffled  jolting  of  a  cart. 

"  Two  militaires  on  the  driver's  seat,"  continued  Car 
ron,  unhurried,  unvarying.  "  And  inside  —  another 
man :  a  man  in  a  black  coat.  The  runner  who  brought 
word  is  not  quite  sure,  but  he  thinks  — " 

"Eh?" 

"It  is  M.  de  Nou!" 

So  once  more,  to  clinch  the  tragedy,  there  befell  that 
phrase  so  often  repeated :  and  this  time  like  the  sum 
mons  of  fate,  this  time  invoking  the  very  presence  of 
the  monster  himself,  soon  to  descend  upon  us.  Bombiste 
gave  an  obscene  chuckle.  He  had  been  wriggling  and 
scowling  these  last  few  tense  moments  in  a  furious 
temper  at  the  neglect  of  himself  and  his  black  box. 
But  I  think  no  one  else  in  the  room  drew  breath  until 
Mother  Carron,  with  a  remnant  of  vigor,  summed  the 
whole  desperate  business  and  spread  it  in  a  sweep  to 
Bibi-Ri  and  cried,  as  she  had  cried  before  — 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  now?  " 

Bibi-Ri  fell  back  three  paces  to  the  archway.  He 
drew  the  door  shut.  He  swung  into  place  the  bar. 
Then  he  walked  over  toward  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

It  had  been  my  share,  if  you  have  followed  me,  to 


THE  RED  MARK  155 

see  many  curious  changes  wrought  upon  my  luckless 
friends  during  some  few  hours.  It  was  my  fortune  at 
the  end  to  see  him  himself.  Simply.  The  proper  spirit 
of  a  man  rising  to  a  situation  no  longer  tolerable.  Fig 
ure  to  yourself  this  eager  little  chap :  high-keyed,  timid, 
fervid :  something  of  a  buffoon,  always  a  victim  of  his 
perceptions.  Do  you  remember  that  cry  of  his  when 
he  spoke  of  his  coming  release  ?  "  Able  to  taste  it," 
he  had  said.  What  do  you  suppose  he  must  have  been 
tasting  at  this  crisis?  Such  a  perceptive,  whimsical 
poor  devil !  .  .  .  But  yet  capable  of  an  ultimate  gesture 
as  far  above  bitterness  as  above  rage  or  despair. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  with  his  wry  smile  that  I  knew  so 
well  and  from  all  his  little  height,  "  why  —  since  I  can't 
play  any  other  it  seems,  I  have  one  part  left  in  my 
repertoire.  ...  I  can  still  play  the  gentleman ! " 

Deliberately,  giving  no  other  warning,  he  struck 
from  the  hand  of  Bombiste  the  black  leather  box  — 
dashed  it  far  away  into  the  fireplace.  With  an  in 
human  scream  the  Pole  jumped  for  his  throat.  They 
locked.  And  the  rest  was  convulsion. 

How  long  it  took  I  cannot  'tell.  Nor  yet  exactly 
how  it  was  done.  A  darkness  seemed  to  descend  about 
them.  They  fought  as  it  might  have  been  through  a 
gap  in  time  and  space :  I  watched  them  reeling  in  a  dim 
immensity.  At  some  point  I  was  aware  of  a  thunder 
ing  and  a  hammering  from  the  outer  limits.  ...  At 
another  I  had  some  idiotic  impulse  to  plunge  into  the 
fray  myself,  to  aid  my  friend.  But  one  glimpse  of  his 
face,  caught  as  a  blink  through  the  whirl  of  things, 
was  quite  enough  to  throw  me  back  out  of  that. 

Himself,  he  had  no  fury.  I  mean  none  of  the  heed- 
lessness  of  a  man  merely  berserk.  While  they  revolved 
in  their  course  together  like  a  many-limbed  polyp,  the 
Pole  ravened  with  ceaseless  and  bestial  ululation. 
Bibi-Ri  never  uttered  a  sound.  Little  aid  he  needed ! 
I  swear  to  you  he  was  still  smiling.  He  kept  on  smiling 


156       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

with  a  set  and  implacable  and  dreadful  pleasantry. 

And  good  reason  he  had  to  smile,  since  that  was 
his  humor.  For  just  then  by  a  masterly  wrench  of 
wrist  over  neck  he  had  sent  Bombiste's  knife  spinning 
from  his  grip  like  a  red-winged  dragonfly.  .  .  .  Soon 
afterward  I  heard  a  bone  snap.  ...  I  had  forgotten, 
you  see,  that  while  he  might  be  the  Red  Mark  he  was 
not  called  Bibi-Ri  for  nothing.  I  had  forgotten  that 
while  he  might  establish  his  claim  to  the  belated  title 
of  a  gentleman,  for  some  twenty-odd  years  of  his  life 
he  had  been  acquiring  the  recondite  arts  of  the  Parisian 
apache ! 

To  say  the  less  of  it :  by  those  lights  he  accomplished 
the  job.  In  the  manner  of  the  voyou  and  the  garroter. 
In  a  merciful  obscurity.  Between  his  hands.  Between 
his  fingers.  With  precision  and  dispatch.  He  broke 
that  creature  Bombiste  the  way  you  would  break  a 
bread-straw.  Until  their  last  smashing  fall  when  the 
Pole  was  somehow  horribly  twisted  downward  under 
neath,  when  his  clamor  shut  off  suddenly  like  a  stream 
at  the  tap,  when  he  rolled  on  the  floor  an  inert  bundle. 

And  we  were  back  in  the  smoky  kitchen.  .  .  . 

Voices  were  crying:  figures  shifting.  The  barred 
door  seemed  ready  to  crack  under  assault.  One  fat 
and  snuffy  priest  had  come  chattering  like  a  parrot. 
One  gaunt  and  iron  priest  had  gone  sweeping  forward 
to  kneel  by  the  dead  and  his  duty.  Two  sad-robed 
sisters  looked  on  with  the  placidity  of  canvas  saints. 
Mother  Carron  was  roaring.  Carron  himself  flitted 
about  with  a  lantern  like  a  will  o'  the  wisp  whose 
tremulous  flare  shot  the  firelight  with  pallid  citrine.  It 
served  at  least  to  show  the  singular  tableau  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs  where  Bibi-Ri  had  picked  himself  up. 

A  gladiator  in  the  arena  might  have  turned  to  Caesar 
as  he  turned  to  the  girl  on  her  pedestal.  He  was 
stripped  to  the  waist,  his  jacket  in  shreds,  his  com 
pact  torso  white  and  gleaming.  And  there  we  could 


THE  RED  MARK  157 

see  —  any  one  might  have  seen  who  knew  and  was 
minded  —  the  curious  scarlet  line  of  the  birthmark 
about  his  neck  which  had  shaped  his  destiny  for  him  to 
this  very  moment :  the  Red  Mark. 

"  Do  you  believe  me  now?  "  asked  Bibi-Ri. 

Wide-eyed,  she  stood  at  gaze. 

"Will  you  believe  me  now?"  asked  Bibi-Ri. 

As  the  child  in  the  fairy  tale  when  the  ice  fell  away 
from  about  her  heart :  so  with  Zelie.  The  steeled,  un 
natural  restraint  dropped  from  her.  The  generous, 
quivering  pulse  sprang  in  her  veins.  She  groped :  she 
swayed  toward  him. 

"  Bibi  —  what  have  you  done?  Your  chance!  .  .  . 
Fly  while  you  can !  " 

"  Too  late,"  he  said,  in  his  turn. 

"  But  the  heritage  —  your  great  future !  Your  riches ! 
Your  happiness !  Nothing  counts  but  that !  .  .  .  Name 
of  God,  you've  lost  it !  " 

"  I  find  this  better :  to  have  you  think  kindly  of  it 
once  —  and  of  me." 

"What  else  should  I  think  of?"  And  oh,  the  im 
passioned  miracle  of  her  voice !  "...  It  is  your  right. 
You  should  have  it  —  you  must  have  it,  yourself,  in 
freedom,  without  hindrance!  For  that  I  would  have 
given  anything  —  everything.  For  that  I  tried  to  drive 
you  away ! " 

"Zelie!"  he  cried,  in  wonder.  "Is  this  true?  Did 
you  feel  so?  ...  It  was  for  my  sake! " 

"  What  else  ?  .  .  .  Though  it  tore  me :  though  I  died 
for  it !  I  was  not  fit  for  you,  but  you  should  have  your 
desire  and  I  could  help  —  a  little,  however  little  — 
to  set  you  on  the  road.  I  could  free  you  from  danger 
of  Maman  —  her  blackmailing.  For  always.  It  was 
my  own  hope.  But  now  — !  .  .  .  Oh  Bibi!  .  .  . 
Bibi!  .  .  ." 

She  must  have  fallen  if  he  had  not  caught  her.  And 
that  was  the  way  of  it  at  long  end.  She  loved  him. 


158        WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

They  loved.  The  convict  and  the  daughter  of  convicts : 
lovers  of  New  Caledonia.  With  what  somber  consum 
mation  ! 

"  But  you  must  escape !  "  she  gasped.  The  knock 
ing  at  the  door  was  like  to  splinter  the  panels.  "  There 
may  yet  be  time.  .  .  .  The  militaires  are  coming !  Be 
quick!" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  It  will  not  do,  little  one,"  he  answered.  "  Useless. 
I  should  only  be  run  down  by  black  trackers.  No. 
For  me,  it  is  finished.  .  .  .  But  I  am  quite  content." 

"  If  you  are  taken  it  means  death !  .  .  .  And  mine !  " 

"  No.  Not  that  either.  You  owe  me,  perhaps,  one 
promise." 

"  Anything  you  want  of  me  1 " 

"  I  bind  you  to  it !  " 

"  Anything  you  want  me  to  say ! " 

"  Then  you  will  not  die :  and  you  will  save  yourself 
from  worse  than  death  the  only  way  still  open.  .  .  . 
These  good  sisters  are  waiting  here  for  you.  Do  you 
understand?" 

"  I  understand ! "  she  sobbed,  through  her  weeping. 
"  I  am  yours.  ...  I  promise !  .  .  .  Only  kiss  me 
once !  " 

It  was  Mother  Carron  who  recovered  some  sort  of 
sanity  first  among  us  It  was  Mother  Carron  who 
gathered  the  fainting  girl  and  passed  her  over  to  the 
charge  of  the  nuns;  Mother  Carron  who  had  fore 
thought  to  snatch  one  of  Carron's  jackets  from  a  hook ; 
Mother  Carron,  finally,  who  slipped  that  jacket  onto 
Bibi-Ri  and  buttoned  it  carefully  to  the  chin  before 
she  would  order  the  door  unbarred. 

"  Well,  well  —  so  we  land  her  in  the  church  after 
all,"  observed  that  remarkable  woman  briskly,  at  the 
last.  "  Chouette,  alors !  It  is  honest,  at  least.  .  .  . 
And  now,  stupid,  open  up  and  admit  the  happy  bride 
groom  and  let  him  see  what  he  can  see !  " 


THE  RED  MARK  159 

He  saw,  right  enough.  He  saw  as  much  as  was  need 
ful.  When  the  door  thrust  inward,  when  his  two  rogue 
friends  of  military  surveillants  rushed  through,  when 
that  tall  devil  in  long  black  redingote  and  high  hat, 
with  his  flaming  yellow  eyes  and  raging  front  —  when 
M.  de  Nou  himself,  I  say,  confronted  us  —  there  we 
were  properly  ranged  as  the  actors  in  a  perfectly  obvi 
ous  police  case  of  brawl  and  murder :  prisoner,  wit 
nesses,  corpus  delicti  and  the  succoring  clergy: 
complete. 

"  What  does  this  mean?  "  he  demanded. 

Bibi-Ri  faced  him  —  a  strange   meeting,   in  truth! 

"  Me,"  he  said,  with  his  old  trick  of  whimsy.  "  Only 
me.  Convict  2232.  I've  been  developing  my  capabili 
ties  a  little.  .  .  That's  all !  " 


So  they  guillotined  Bibi-Ri.  In  due  course,  by  due 
process,  he  passed  before  the  Marine  Tribunal,  before 
the  Commandant  and  the  Procurator  General  and  the 
Director  and  the  rest  of  our  salaried  philanthropists. 
They  dealt  with  him  faithfully  and  of  a  gray  early 
morning  they  led  him  from  the  little  door  of  the  con 
demned  cell.  They  marched  him  out  with  his  legs 
hobbled  and  his  hands  tied  behind  his  back;  with  the 
chaplain  tottering  at  his  side  and  the  bayonets  of  the 
guard  shining  martially  file  and  file :  with  some  of  the 
chiefest  of  these  judges  to  receive  him  and  some 
hundreds  of  us  convicts  drawn  up  below  to  do  him 
honor. 

Such  was  the  method  of  his  elevation,  you  will  per 
ceive  :  such  the  means  by  which  he  attained  his  ambi 
tions,  his  uplifted  position  in  the  world  —  when  he 
climbed  the  scaffold  in  the  courtyard  of  the  central 
prison  on  He  de  Nou  and  took  his  final  look  on  life. 

I  was  there.  For  my  complicity  at  Mother  Car- 
ron's  that  night  and  my  refusal  to  testify  at  the  trial 


160       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

they  had  shipped  me  back  to  the  Collective.  I  stood  in 
the  front  row.  I  was  among  those  felons  whose  special 
privilege  is  their  compulsory  attendance  at  executions. 
I  could  miss  nothing.  Not  a  word  nor  a  movement. 
Not  the  hurried  mumbling  of  the  death  sentence.  Not 
the  ruffling  of  the  drums  that  covered  the  fatal  prepa 
rations.  .  .  .  Not  even  the  icy  chill  to  the  marrow 
when  we  sank  there  in  our  ranks  on  the  damp  flag 
stones. 

"  Convicts :  on  your  knees !    Hats  off !  " 

Just  as  well  for  me  I  was  allowed  to  kneel,  perhaps. 
.  .  .  Never  mind.  ...  It  does  not  bear  talking  of. 
Except  one  thing.  One  thing  I  recall  to  comfort  me, 
as  I  saw  it  through  a  mist  of  tears,  wrung  with  pity 
and  with  awe.  And  that  was  Bibi-Ri's  last  salute  to 
my  address  before  they  lashed  him  on  the  bascule, 
under  the  knife.  .  .  .  He  smiled  at  me,  the  little  fellow. 
Even  gayly.  Bidding  me  note  as  plain  as  words  how 
he  held  fast  his  good  courage,  how  he  had  kept  his 
counsel  and  his  great  secret  in  prison  and  would  keep 
them  to  the  end.  How  he  apprehended  and  viewed 
clear-eyed  the  inconceivable  grim  jest  of  the  family 
party  there  on  the  scaffold:  himself  and  the  execu 
tioner  ! 

Then  he  looked  away  across  the  harbor,  toward  the 
anchorage,  and  he  did  not  shift  his  gaze  again  from 
that  goal  of  Noumea.  Taking  his  farewell,  Monsieur. 
Taking  his  farewell  in  spirit  and  quite  content,  as  he 
had  said,  I  do  believe.  For  this  was  the  day,  this 
the  very  morning,  when  the  steamer  left  Noumea 
bearing  his  beloved  Zelie  for  home.  .  .  . 

And  one  other  thing  I  can  tell  you,  crisp  and  clear. 
Do  you  remember  when  I  began  I  said  I  had  evened 
the  score  against  M.  de  Nou?  Evened  it  for  always 
until  that  fiend  shall  be  dragged  to  the  nethermost 
level  of  hell  and  earn  his  reward?  Evened  it  the  only 
way  it  could  be  evened  on  this  side  of  the  grave?  .  .  . 


THE  RED  MARK  161 

And  so  I  did.  Never  was  such  an  evening!  Listen: 
Ask  me  not  how  it  was  done,  by  aid  of  what  obscure 
pressure,  through  what  underground  channels.  But 
the  miniature  —  the  miniature  of  Bibi-Ri !  You  recol 
lect?  Somehow.  Monsieur  —  somehow,  I  say  —  it 
found  its  way  into  the  panier  with  the  head  of  Bibi-Ri. 
Somehow  the  new  assistant,  Bombiste's  successor,  dis 
covered  it  when  he  "  robbed  the  basket  " —  when  he 
stooped  to  gather  the  little  perquisites  of  office  for  his 
master.  And  somehow  and  finally  it  was  laid  straight 
way  in  the  palm  of  M.  de  Nou.  .  .  . 

He  glanced  at  it.  I  saw  him  start.  I  saw  him  stare. 
I  saw  him  stand  and  stand  and  still  stare.  I  saw  him 
lose  bit  by  bit  that  shell  of  damnable  pride,  that  prop 
of  untouched  and  unrelenting  hatred  and  contempt 
which  was  and  which  had  been  through  all  his  years, 
his  evil  support.  .  .  .  He  gave  a  movement,  of  horror, 
of  growing  terror.  He  stepped  over.  And  he  looked 
into  the  basket  at  his  handiwork  still  lying  there.  He 
looked  and  he  looked.  But  he  could  not  know.  He 
cannot  know.  He  can  never,  never  know,  Monsieur. 
.  .  .  For  the  red  mark  about  that  severed  neck  was 
all  one  red  mark  —  do  you  see?  —  and  the  Red  Mark 
remains  a  mystery  forever ! 


EAST  OE  EASTWARD 

FEW  persons  ever  attain  any  precise  knowledge 
of  the  immemorial  East,  its  ways  or  its  mean 
ings  ;  its  wickedness  or  its  mystery.  But  Tuns- 
tal  was  a  young  man  with  a  cherubic  smile  and  a 
plethoric  letter  of  credit,  and  he  had  traveled  far  and 
wide  to  Honolulu,  to  Yokohama,  to  Macao,  and  even  to 
Singapore,  which  is  very  far  indeed,  besides  being  ex 
tremely  wicked.  By  the  time  he  had  taken  passage  on 
the  Lombock  for  a  tour  of  the  archipelago  his  education 
seemed  complete.  He  had  just  learned  to  play  fan- 
tan  with  much  the  same  skill  he  was  wont  to  display 
at  poker  in  more  familiar  climes. 

Tunstal  had  fallen  in  with  other  traveled  men  on 
board  the  Lombock,  which  covers  a  beat  among  the 
lesser  ports  of  Netherlands  India.  These  were  simple 
planters,  merchants  and  traders  for  the  most  part, 
largely  Dutch  in  flavor  as  well  as  speed.  He  thought 
them  pretty  dull,  but  they  proved  to  be  good  listeners. 
So  he  had  been  instructing  them  all  around,  charming 
their  ears  with  tales  of  Sago  Lane  and  the  Jalan  Sultan, 
of  Gay  Street  and  Number  Nine  and  the  dances  at 
Kapiolani,  the  while  he  banked  a  bowl  of  chinking 
cash  as  long  as  any  would  sit  up  with  him. 

That  was  how  he  came  to  find  himself  alone  in  the 
smoking  room  one  breathless  hot  morning  some  days 
out  from  Singapore,  amid  the  dead  cheroots  and  the 
empty  glasses,  with  a  pile  of  ill-gotten  profits  before 
him,  a  very  dry  throat,  and  a  great  call  for  swifter 
action  and  yet  newer  worlds.  It  was  all  too  easy. 
This  globe-trotting  thing  threatened  to  become  monot 
onous.  .  .  t. 

162 


EAST  OF  EASTWARD  163 

"  And  not  even  a  drink  on  tap,"  he  complained,  for 
the  virtuous  steward  —  also  Dutch  —  had  retired  long 
ago  beyond  the  troubling  of  a  bell  push.  "  A  fellow 
might  just  as  well  be  back  home  with  the  lid  down." 

He  stumbled  out  on  deck  in  the  dawn  that  came 
pouring  up  from  behind  the  earth  like  a  cloud  of  lumi 
nous,  pearly  smoke.  The  Lombock  had  made  harbor 
some  time  during  the  night  and  now  lay  anchored 
in  a  river  mouth  off  the  fringe  of  a  toy  town  —  one  of 
those  island  cities  apparently  built  of  matches  and 
cigar  boxes  that  have  a  thousand  years  of  history 
behind  them  and  no  sense  of  dignity  and  not  so  much 
as  a  brick  block  to  support  the  same. 

The  water  front  was  a  tangle  of  crazy  jetties,  of 
string-tied  fishing  boats  and  bird-cage  houses,  some 
on  stilts  and  some  on  floating  shingles,  to  rise  and  fall 
with  the  tide.  There  stood  the  inevitable  ancient  fort, 
clad  in  creepers,  and  there  were  the  usual  rows  of 
godowns,  lime-washed  and  naked.  A  little  mosque 
sprouted  from  a  nest  of  palms,  like  a  moldy  turnip  try 
ing  to  grow  the  wrong  way.  Up  along  the  wooded 
rise  nestled  a  few  solid  dwellings,  with  garden  walls 
and  tended  terraces.  But  Tunstal  discovered  no 
wonders  —  nothing  to  claim  a  star  in  any  guidebook  — 
and  he  looked  indifferently  at  that  age-old  land  with 
its  great  green,  jungled  slopes  shouldering  back  and 
back  until  they  faded  in  dim  blue. 

The  early  stir  of  little  brown  men,  the  raffle  of  small 
craft  propelled  by  pictorial  pirates  in  kilted  sarongs, 
the  amphibious  urchin  who  paddled  a  log  and  besought 
a  chance  to  dive  for  coppers;  the  mounting  heat,  the 
lifting  river  mists,  the  first  saffron  tinting  of  the  sun, 
and  even  the  complex  and  curious  odor  that  wafted 
overstream,  of  jasmine  and  mud  flats  and  ripe  fish,  of 
swamps  and  hearths  and  the  indescribable  exhalation 
of  the  human  forcing  house  —  he  had  observed  these 
things  before  in  places  quite  similar. 


164       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

Wherefore  he  yawned  in  the  face  of  the  immemorial 
East  and  moved  toward  the  lowered  gangway  to  meet 
the  first  mate,  a  lean  and  leathery  mariner,  whom  he 
hailed  with  boisterous  outcry. 

"  Hello  chief  —  you're  the  very  chap  I  need." 

The  mate  paused  to  turn  his  patient,  almost  mourn 
ful  regard  that  seemed  never  to  focus  short  of  the 
horizon. 

"  I'm  going  ashore,"  announced  Mr.  Tunstal,  "  for 
a  taste  of  local  ginger." 

"Ginger?"  inquired  Nivin. 

"  Some  kind  of  tropic  spice." 

"Spice?" 

"  I  didn't  come  all  this  way,"  explained  Tunstal,  "  to 
waste  my  opportunities  with  a  lot  of  fat  koopmans 
who  talk  of  nothing  but  calicoes  and  the  rate  of  ex 
change.  I'm  a  humble  seeker  after  truth,  right  enough, 
but  I  want  it  fresh  and  snappy.  I've  got  the  price 
and,  believe  me,  chief,  I've  got  the  appetite.  .  .  .  What 
port  is  this  ?  " 

Nivin  told  him.  The  name  does  not  matter.  It 
might  have  been  one  or  another  about  that  coast.  It 
meant  little  to  Tunstal  beyond  the  fact  that  they  would 
lie  there  till  midnight. 

"  And  plenty  long  enough,  by  the  looks.  I'll  just 
collect  three  thrills  and  a  shock  and  be  back  for  tiffin. 
All  I  want  from  you,  chief,  is  the  wise  tip.  Tell  me, 
chief,  tell  me.  Is  there  anything —  you  know  —  any 
thing  specially  worth  seeing  hereabouts?  " 

Thus  spake  and  thus  queried  Alfred  Poynter  Tun 
stal,  and  Nivin  examined  the  figure  he  made  there 
under  colored  silk  fitted  sleekly  upon  his  well-fed  per 
son  and  his  tie  was  a  dainty  scrap.  He  carried  a  dove- 
gray  sun  helmet  with  not  more  than  three  yards  of 
bright  peacock  puggree.  His  buckskin  shoes  were 
fleckless.  Also  he  wore  a  smile,  which  requires  to  be 
noted.  It  began  in  dimples  and  circled  chubbily.  A 


EAST  OF  EASTWARD  165 

captious  eye  might  have  marked  it  as  somewhat  lack 
ing  —  somewhat  too  round  and  ready,  like  the  ripple 
on  a  pan  of  water.  But  it  was  brisk,  forward,  and  per 
fectly  assured. 

"Anything  worth  seeing?"  repeated  Nivin,  consid 
ering  that  smile. 

The  mate  had  sailed  with  globe-trotters  before, 
though  possibly  with  none  quite  duplicating  Mr.  Tun- 
stal.  This  man  Nivin  was  one  of  a  type  not  so  rare 
in  outlying  lanes  and  obscure  corners  as  might  be 
thought,  into  which  something  of  the  sun  and  the  air 
of  warm  seas  has  penetrated.  A  bit  of  a  dreamer, 
perhaps,  mellowed  by  service  under  softer  skies, 
among  softer  races.  To  such  an  officer  any  passenger 
is  apt  to  become  an  object  of  real  concern,  aside  from 
the  strictly  professional  value  thereof.  He  had  o\er- 
heard  Mr.  Tunstal's  hectic  memoirs  in  ..he  smoking 
room  and  simply,  laboriously,  he  went  about  to  convey 
a  certain  warning.  .  .  . 

"  I  should  hardly  think  so  —  for  a  gentleman  of 
your  experience.  The  fact  is,  sir,  you're  off  the  trav 
eled  track  here,  so  to  speak.  A  town  like  this  has  no 
use  for  tourists  and  provides  no  class  to  fatten  off  the 
likes.  Music,  dances  —  all  the  giddy  frolic  made  up 
for  a  show  —  they  don't  lower  theirselves  to  that  cut 
o'  business." 

"Why,  they're  only  natives,  aren't  they?"  asked 
Tunstal,  and  the  whole  philosophy  of  his  kind  was 
rolled  in  the  phrase. 

"  Only  natives,  as  you  say,  sir,"  returned  Nivin 
slowly — "which  is  Malay  and  poor  to  jest  with,  be 
sides  frequently  carrying  a  creese.  They're  a  sober- 
minded  breed,  sir.  Quite  superior  and  fit  for  respect 
in  their  way." 

But  Tunstal  had  been  leaning  to  watch  the  river 
traffic,  and  here  he  prodded  the  other  to  look.  Just 


166       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

passing  them  at  the  moment  came  a  clumsy  proa  that 
had  worked  upchannel  on  the  last  of  the  tide  under 
sweeps  —  a  singular  blot  of  color.  Alow  and  aloft, 
from  her  tub  cutwater  and  forward-sloping  rail  to 
her  languid  wings  of  matting,  she  was  grimed  an 
earthy,  angry  red.  Her  sailors  were  smeared  with  the 
same  stain,  their  head  rags  and  kilts  and  their  bare 
arms  and  knotted  fingers  at  the  oars,  so  that  she  and 
they  seemed  to  swim  in  a  sullen,  an  infernal  conflagra 
tion,  and  the  sunrise  slanting  across  the  river  reached 
picked  spar  and  rope  and  savage-dyed  group  with  dabs 
of  ruby  and  vermilion  and  dull  citrine. 

"  It's  a  cinnabar  boat,"  said  Nivin  as  they  stared 
down  at  that  silent  crew  of  ensanguined  devils. 

"  From  the  mines.  I  know,"  nodded  Tunstal.  "  Up 
the  river  —  what?  I  heard  about  those  mines.  Van 
Goor,  that  pop-eyed  little  chap  —  an  agent  for  some 
mining  company,  I  believe  —  he  was  telling  us  last 
night  around  fourth-drink  time.  It  appears  these 
mercury  miners  are  imported  Kwangsi  coolies.  About 
as  low  a  race  as  crawls,  with  peculiar  customs  of  their 
own.  They  trade  with  the  country  people  for  supplies, 
and  they  drive  some  queer  trades.  Did  you  ever  hap 
pen  to  hear  yourself,  chief?" 

"  There's  no  lack  of  tales." 

"  Maybe,  but  this  is  the  only  real  one  I  got  a  smell 
of  —  pity  Van  Goor  wasn't  a  bit  thirstier.  He  said  a 
famine  has  been  raging  in  some  coast  district  or  other 
and  the  villagers  are  keen  to  sell.  At  the  same  time  the 
commodity  naturally  loses  weight,  through  starvation, 
and  the  coolie  gangs  buy  by  the  pound.  So  a  canny 
village  will  pool  its  food  to  fatten  up  a  few  — Ah !  " 

The  ore  boat  had  drawn  level  with  them,  so  near 
they  might  have  tossed  a  biscuit  to  the  rude  decks. 
And  there  under  the  break  of  the  poop  they  saw  three 
women,  scarcely  more  than  girls,  crouched  against  the 
bulkhead.  One  raised  her  face  for  an  instant,  a  face 


EAST  OF  EASTWARD  167 

struck  out  like  a  pallid,  sharp-carven  cameo  from  its 
ruddy  setting  —  struck  out  with  the  poignant,  mute 
intimacy  that  sometimes  springs  between  craft  and 
craft  across  a  widening  gulf.  A  vivid  and  unforget- 
able  face ! 

The  head  boatman  snarled,  and  the  ragged  creatures 
huddled  from  sight  like  nestlings  under  shadow  of  a 
hawk,  while  the  proa  swept  in  toward  an  upper  jetty. 

"  Couldn't  ever  be  proved,"  muttered  Nivin  at  last. 

"  Of  course  not,"  agreed  Tunstal  genially.  "  Who 
wants  to  prove  it?  And  anyway  the  commodity  is  still 
in  transit  —  coming  in  from  those  coast  villages,  very 
likely." 

"What  would  they  be  doing  here?" 

"  Oh,  they  probably  have  a  local  clearing  house  for 
the  trade,"  said  Tunstal,  learned  in  wickedness. 

"  Why  should  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Well,  observe  the  commodity  again.  It  hasn't 
been  delivered,  has  it?  You'll  notice  it  shows  no  stain 
of  cinnabar  —  yet!"  .  .  . 

The  mate's  face  was  stony  as  he  stood  gripping  the 
rail,  but  Tunstal  only  smiled  with  the  proper  cynical 
detachment  of  the  globe-trotter.  From  a  silver  case  he 
drew  a  fat  and  sophisticated  cigar  to  adorn  that  smile. 

"  And  so  much  for  your  superior  Malay.  Chief, 
I'm  surprised  at  you,  trying  to  string  me.  Fancy  a 
native  how  you  like,  but  don't  put  it  on  grounds  of 
respect  —  because  I  know  'em.  I've  seen  'em  pretty 
much,  and  I've  no  more  respect  for  any  coffee-shaded 
tribe  using  two  legs  instead  of  four  than  I  have  for 
so  many  monkeys.  Monkeys  —  that's  what  they  are. 
Apes! 

"Play  with  'em?  Sure.  It's  all  they're  fit  for  — 
cute  little  rascals  sometimes  too.  But  they  simply 
have  no  moral  sense.  I  take  'em  as  I  find  'em;  al 
ways  ready  for  any  of  their  cunning  little  games,  you 


168       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

understand.  Now  here's  this  burg.  I  don't  expect  a 
complete  Arabian  Night's  Dream,  but  I'm  dead  sure  of 
finding  a  joint  of  some  kind,  and  I  mean  to  look  it 
over  —  the  place  where  the  monkeys  perform  for  you." 

"  I  can't  help  you,"  said  Nivin,  tight-lipped.  "  You 
may  be  right  —  and  yet  I'd  swear  these  people  have 
never  been  spoiled.  There's  so  few  whites  come  here. 
You  see,  sir,  you're  pretty  far  East — " 

"Too  far  for  a  'sailor's  rest'?"  laughed  Tunstal. 
"  Pshaw !  Come  now ;  are  you  going  to  turn  me  loose 
on  my  own  or  will  you  steer  me  up  to  the  local  tropic 
drink,  at  least?" 

Nivin  might  have  been  seen  to  wince  a  trifle,  as  one 
sorely  tried,  and  his  melancholy  gaze  sought  the  shore. 
Was  there  or  was  there  not  the  beginning  of  a  twinkle 
in  the  gray  depths?  He  would  have  denied  it  —  he 
afterward  did  deny  it. 

"A  drink?"  he  murmured.  "A  drink?  Oh,  aye,  I 
could  name  a  drink  if  that  would  fill  your  need.  Look 
over  yonder  on  the  slope  beyond  the  Government 
House,  that  purple  blaze.  It's  a  big  bachang  tree  in 
bloom,  and  if  you  should  take  the  path  that  climbs 
beside  it  you  might  find  such  entertainment  as  per 
haps  you're  seeking.  Local  I  believe  it  is  and  quite 
tropic.  Keep  always  to  the  left  till  you  reach  a  pair 
o'  green  gates  —  three  turns,  or  it  may  be  four  —  and 
mind  your  footing  as  you  go,  sir — " 

So  this  was  the  way  Mr.  Tunstal  won  his  wish  in 
the  early  morning  when  he  came  to  the  garden  of  Lol 
Raman,  up  from  terrace  to  terrace  above  that  far,  that 
very  far  Eastern  town. 

He  met  his  first  thrill  where  Ezekiel  met  his  in 
the  vision,  within  the  threshold  of  the  gate.  The  high 
wall  he  had  been  following  gave  suddenly  under  an 
arch.  There  were  the  double  green  doors,  standing 
open,  and  he  entered  a  sort  of  open-air  conservatory. 
At  least  he  had  no  better  word  for  the  place  so 


EAST  OF  EASTWARD  169 

crammed  with  color  and  scent,  and  no  word  at  all  for 
the  strange  flowers  and  improbable  trees  that  clustered 
along  the  walks.  Down  by  the  farther  end  of  the  in- 
closure  stood  a  low  house  almost  lost  in  shrubbery.  An 
arbor  with  some  chairs  and  tables  seemed  to  invite  the 
passer-by.  And  just  before  him,  in  Buddhistic  medita 
tion  under  a  palm,  squatted  the  reception  committee  of 
one  —  a  monstrous  orang-utan,  the  true  red-haired 
jungle  man,  with  a  face  like  a  hideous  black  caricature 
of  Death. 

Things  happened.  At  sight  of  a  visitor  the  huge 
beast  reared  himself,  and  sprang  abruptly  into  vehe 
ment  life,  bouncing  on  bent  knuckles.  He  started 
out  to  the  limit  of  his  chain  until  the  bright  steel  links 
snicked  ominously  behind  him  and  the  leather  harness 
drew  taut  about  his  shoulders,  pumping  and  roaring  in 
the  great  cavern  of  his  chest  to  top  a  gale  of  his  own 
forests.  He  scurried  around  the  trunk  and  snatched 
at  something  —  a  packet  of  leaves.  He  ran  around 
the  other  way  and  retrieved  a  little  lacquer  box. 
Crouching  over  these  treasures  with  every  appearance 
of  the  most  frantic  rage,  he  began,  swiftly  and  incred 
ibly  —  to  roll  cigarettes ! 

And  meanwhile,  impassive  as  a  wax  manikin,  a 
white-jacketed,  white-saronged  servitor  glided  from 
space  somewhere  to  prepare  a  table  and  to  offer  a  chair 
in  the  arbor,  to  set  out  a  square-faced  bottle,  to  pour  a 
glass  of  golden  yellow  liquor,  and  to  collect  the  tiny, 
fresh  cylinders  of  tobacco  which  the  earnest  ape  was 
shedding  about  him  in  a  shower  —  all  with  the  gesture 
of  conjuring. 

Tunstal  sat  down  hard.  He  succeeded  in  lighting 
one  of  the  cigarettes.  Exquisite.  He  gulped  the  glass 
of  liquor.  Delicious.  .  .  . 

"  I  seem,"  said  Tunstal,  mopping  his  brow  —  "I 
seem  to  have  landed  as  per  invoice." 

And  yet  these  portents  were  valid  enough  too,  as 


170       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

Nivin  could  have  told  him  —  the  customary  welcome 
at  Lol  Raman's.  For  even  among  the  byways  a  re 
sort  must  have  its  features,  though  it  boast  no  cafe 
chantant  and  hang  no  battery  of  conscientious  nudes. 
In  the  warm,  clammy  evenings  when  the  fog  crept  up 
from  the  river  marshes  it  was  nothing  unusual  for 
Lol  Raman  —  whoever  or  whatever  he  might  be  —  to 
entertain  as  many  as  a  dozen  patrons  in  his  garden  on 
the  hill.  They  gathered  about  his  tables  and  admired 
his  pet  orang-utan,  they  smoked  his  cigarettes  and 
more  particularly  they  fortified  themselves  with  his 
private  stock,  which  was  arrack.  A  very  potent  safe 
guard  against  the  seasonal  fever  is  arrack,  being 
country  spirit  of  a  golden  tint  and  undisciplined  taste. 
But  Lol  Hainan's  owned  a  private  recipe,  and  hither 
came  the  initiated  —  traders,  wanderers,  officials  of  the 
island  government,  officers  of  passing  tramps.  Here 
they  came,  and  here  they  often  remained  until  their 
friends  bore  them  away  again,  thoroughly  safeguarded 
to  the  point  of  petrifaction. 

Nivin  might  have  explained  these  matters,  but  he 
had  omitted  so  to  do,  and  Tunstal's  was  the  sheer  de 
light  of  discovery. 

"  Stengah,"  he  observed,  reaching  for  the  bottle. 
"  Manti  dooloo !  " 

The  waxen  gentleman  looked  a  trifle  more  intelligent 
than  an  eggplant.  Evidently  his  island  Malay  was  not 
up  to  the  classical  standard.  Tunstal  tried  him  in 
fragmentary  Dutch  to  the  same  effect  and  with  the 
same  result. 

"  Damn  it  —  I  say  I  want  more  and  never  mind  tak 
ing  that  bottle  away !  " 

The  manikin's  face  opened. 

"  Oh,  sure.    Three  dolla'  hap'." 

On  being  paid  in  Singapore  silver  he  vanished  into 
space  once  more  while  Tunstal  philosophized. 


EAST  OF  EASTWARD  171 

"  Too  bad  about  the  simple  native  that  has  no  use 

for  a  tourist !  " 

The  garden  had  fallen  to  a  drowsy  hush.  Within 
its  four  walls  only  the  great  red  ape  stayed  to  do  the 
honors,  and  he  had  subsided,  applying  himself  seri 
ously  now  to  the  cigarette  industry.  He  sat  cross- 
legged,  workmanlike,  with  a  bobbing  of  his  ugly  head 
and  a  ridiculous  curling  tongue  above  the  delicate  task. 
Selecting  a  leaf  of  the  natural  weed  and  adding  a  pinch 
for  filler,  he  would  somehow  twist  the  spill  and  nip 
under  the  ends  with  flying  fingers.  Curious  fingers  he 
had  —  long  and  black  and  muscular  —  sinister  talons 
that  yet  were  nimble  enough  to  trick  the  eye.  It  was 
amazing  to  watch  him.  As  if  a  fiend  from  the  pit  had 
been  trained  to  do  featherstitch ! 

Tunstal  watched  for  a  time  and  drank  for  a  time 
and  chuckled  like  a  parrot  over  sugar.  The  adven 
ture  suited  him ;  it  developed  well.  There  was  promise 
in  it  of  something  different,  something  quite  local  and 
tropic  indeed. 

A  smooth  exhilaration  began  to  crawl  through  his 
veins,  a  heightened  sense  of  power  and  perception. 
He  found  a  special  charm  in  each  detail  about  him, 
each  to  be  separately  savored.  The  sunlight,  he  noted, 
was  singularly  rich  and  fluid.  The  yellow  lights  in  his 
glass  seemed  to  wink  with  recondite  confidences.  A 
tender  spray  of  vanna  showered  its  tribute  of  orange 
stars  upon  him;  some  glorious  rose-pink  rhododen 
drons  drooped  seductively  toward  his  shoulder.  He 
reached  to  reap  them,  and  at  that  moment  —  the  leaves 
parted  and  he  saw  the  girl.  .  .  . 

If  the  event  had  only  transpired  a  trifle  later,  as  the 
bard  so  nearly  says,  it  would  never  have  transpired  at 
all.  Two  glasses  more  of  the  golden  arrack,  one  glass 
even,  and  the  subsequent  proceedings  could  hardly 
have  interested  Mr.  Tunstal  or  anybody  else,  except 


172       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

possibly  Nivin  —  Nivin,  who  had  laid  his  innocent  plot 
to  that  end.  So  narrow  is  the  margin  of  trouble !  He 
should  have  blinked  at  the  lovely  vision  and  slept 
peacefully  safeguarded  beside  the  square-faced  bottle 
until  carried  thence  aboard  the  steamer  and  gone  on  to 
tell  another  globe-trotting  yarn.  But  he  was  just  a 
snifter  short  on  that  potent  and  undisciplined  drink. 
And  here  was  the  girl.  ..."  By  jing!  "  breathed  Mr. 
Tunstal. 

Truly  by  any  standard  East  or  West,  she  was  very 

fair.    Of  her  face  he  marked  only  the  oval,  the  delicate 

.  bisque-tinted  skin  that  shames  mere  white,  and  the 

straight  brows,  not  too  broad  for  a  tight-drawn  casque 

of  hair.    A  striped  sarong  clipped  her  waist  below  the 

-  jutting  front  of  her  little  green  jacket,  and  he  saw  the 

soft  swell  at  her  throat  and  the  fine,  free  swing  of  lines 

as  she  leaned  forward,  startled,  downwardlooking.    An 

alluring  and  timely  apparition! 

Tunstal  thought  so  —  to  call  it  thinking.  "  You 
pippin,"  he  remarked  as  he  pulled  himself  to  his  feet  by 
the  table.  He  fumbled  at  his  helmet  with  some  con 
fused  notion  of  beginning  gallantly,  but  it  fell  from 
his  fingers,  and  he  stood  flushed  and  staring.  "  You 
pippin !  "  he  said  again. 

She  belonged  in  this  garden,  in  the  checker  of  light 
and  shadow  and  exotic  color,  slender  like  a  young 
bamboo  and  rounded  as  a  purple  passion  fruit.  She 
belonged  with  the  whole  affair.  She  was  just  the  thing 
he  had  been  waiting  for.  He  took  an  unsteady  step, 
and  another.  She  made  no  move.  She  still  regarded 
him  as  he  stayed,  swaying.  Through  the  play  of  sun- 
threaded  foliage  she  seemed  even  to  smile,  provoca 
tive,  as  if  to  mock  him  for  hesitating  on  his  cue;  and 
at  that  he  lost  his  head  altogether  —  what  was  left 
him.  Thrusting  aside  shrubs  and  creepers,  he  reached 
for  her  as  he  had  reached  to  pluck  the  rhododendron. 

"  D'you  —  d'you    come   seeking   me,    m'dear  ? "   he 


EAST  OF  EASTWARD  173 

stammered  fatuously.    "  Come  right  along,  then,  you 
beauty  —  and  gie's  a  kiss,  won't  you?" 

He  did  not  do  it  well  —  in  fact  by  the  time  he  ar 
rived  at  the  gesture  he  did  it  very  badly. 

Smoking-room  audiences  that  had  hung  upon  the 
fervid  tales  of  Tunstal,  globe-trotter;  his  fellow  pas 
sengers,  instructed  in  speed  by  the  same  —  they  must 
have  felt  somehow  cheated  if  they  could  have  seen  him 
then.  They  must  have  suspected  the  sad,  sad  dog,  a 
wolf  for  theory  but  a  pug  for  practice,  whose  snap 
and  dash  in  outlandish  parts  had  been  harmless  enough 
after  all.  There  is  a  technique  to  such  affairs.  Even 
arrack  cannot  supply  the  deficiencies  of  the  amateur  — 
as  Tunstal  was,  and  as  he  presently  knew  himself  to 
be.  ... 

He  recognized  her.  His  arms  were  about  the  lithe 
figure,  drawing  her  close  when  he  became  aware  of  the 
clean-carven  cameo  face  so  near  him.  She  was  the 
girl  of  the  cinnabar  boat,  the  girl  that  had  glanced 
upward  from  the  evil  decks.  Yet  the  shock  of  dis 
covery  was  not  his  chief  reaction,  neither  amazement 
at  her  presence  in  the  garden  and  her  changed  attire. 
He  was  looking  into  her  eyes. 

They  were  wide  and  brown,  deep  as  grotto  pools, 
and  strange,  with  a  hint  of  obliquity  alien  to  him  by 
untold  centuries.  But  he  could  read  —  as  they  blazed 
into  his  own  —  he  could  read  their  language.  Terror 
was  there  and  bewilderment.  But  pride  too  —  pride 
of  soul  like  the  chill  purity  of  mountain  peaks.  And 
from  that  height  she  feared  and  loathed  him,  the  brut- 
Jsh  creature  of  another  race  who  dared  to  lay  his 
defiling  and  incomprehensible  touch  upon  her. 

These  things  he  saw  while  he  stooped,  while  his  lips 
pressed  her  bud  of  a  mouth.  For  he  kissed  her.  After 
a  fashion  he  did  kiss  her  —  though  the  fume  was  clear 
ing  from  his  brain  as  haze  lifts  on  the  channel,  though 


174       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

he  understood  how  abhorrent  was  this  caress  unknown 
to  Orientals  —  beginning  to  feel  pretty  much  ashamed 
of  himself.  .  .  .  But  a  bit  too  late. 

The  same  instant  she  broke  away  from  his  hold, 
spurning  him,  and  as  he  reeled  a  bunch  of  hairy  great 
fingers  closed  on  the  back  of  his  neck. 

He  screamed  once  and  clutched  a  stout,  hanging 
creeper  and  clung  there  while  his  cry  throttled  down 
to  a  gasp.  Behind  him  he  could  hear  the  click  of  steel 
links;  before  him  the  sunlight  swam.  Helpless  as  a 
kitten  nipped  by  the  scruff,  he  fought  for  life. 

Because  the  chain  was  fastened  high  and  because  the 
beast  was  yoked  between  the  shoulders  he  had  come 
within  the  grip  of  only  one  murderous  paw,  which  was 
mere  luck.  But  through  a  long  moment  while  his 
blood  beat  thick  and  his  eyeballs  started  from  their 
sockets  he  knew  the  agony  of  those  that  die  by  the 
garrote.  A  claw  tough  as  a  metal  ring  dug  into  his 
flesh,  working  for  a  firmer  span,  gathering  the  cords 
and  muscles,  tightening  slowly.  He  could  only  stare 
at  vacancy  and  dance  upon  the  air  and  clench  the 
creeper  that  brought  down  around  him  a  little  snow 
storm  of  flower  petals  from  the  quaking  branches  over 
head. 

The  creeper  held.  So  did  not  his  collar  when  the 
eager  fingers  shifted  and  found  a  purchase  whereby  the 
half  of  his  coat  was  stripped  like  a  husk  of  corn.  At 
the  sudden  release  he  lost  footing.  .  .  . 

He  was  like  one  overtaken  in  a  nightmare,  too  faint 
and  clogged  to  will  an  effective  movement  for  escape. 
With  safety  a  matter  of  inches  he  floundered  on  the 
verge,  entangled  by  vines  and  grasses,  tugging  madly 
at  his  hip.  And  the  nightmare  was  very  close,  a  horror 
not  to  be  faced,  a  red  fury  with  gigantic  arms  that 
came  flailing  and  picking  at  him  and  tearing  his 
clothes  to  ribbons  as  he  groveled ! 

It  lasted  until  the  ape  took  a  trick  from  the  man, 


EAST  OF  EASTWARD  175 

swung  up  on  a  liana,  and  from  the  vantage  caught  him 
about  the  body  with  his  feet.  Then  Tunstal's  re 
volver  came  free.  Crushed  in  that  dreadful  embrace, 
he  began  to  shoot ! 

When  he  stood  up  above  the  quivering  heap  and 
looked  about  him  he  was  alone.  After  the  frenzy  of 
his  struggle  the  silence  dropped  in  upon  him  like  a 
ram.  The  walks  were  empty,  the  thickets  were  quiet, 
the  house  at  the  end  of  the  inclosure  seemed  deserted. 
He  turned  to  the  spot  where  he  had  seen  the  girl.  She 
was  gone.  He  turned  toward  the  gates.  They  had 
been  closed.  He  ran  stumbling  and  flung  against  them 
and  found  they  had  been  locked  as  well.  No  one  came, 
no  one  called.  And  the  garden  drowsed  in  the  warmth 
of  a  forenoon  brilliant,  heavy-scented,  tropical !  .  .  . 

The  last  Tunstal  remembered  was  raving  back  and 
forth  within  those  four  walls  with  a  useless  gun  in  his 
fist  and  the  pitiless  sun  beating  upon  his  head. 

There  is  no  tradition  of  the  mercantile  marine  that 
provides  for  following  the  fortunes  of  travelers  who 
step  ashore  to  enjoy  the  scenery  or  other  benefits. 
But  a  traveler  who  carries  an  important  letter  of  credit 
and  a  through  passage  ticket  may  present  something 
of  an  exception.  In  the  early  evening  of  the  Lombock's 
stay  at  the  port  by  the  river  mouth  her  first  mate  found 
time  and  occasion  for  a  cryptic  word  with  her  captain. 
And  the  captain  was  exceeding  wroth,  for  the  Lombock 
would  finish  her  landing  on  the  ebb  and  he  had  no 
mind  to  miss  a  tide. 

"Who  d'y'say?  Him?  Not  back  yet,  d'y'say? 
Well,  what's  that  to  me?  Have  I  got  to  drynurse 
every  glorified  pup  of  a  globe-trotter  that  takes  a 
sanctified  notion  to  soak  hisself?" 

Nivin  explained  at  some  length. 

"  To  hell  with  all  passengers !  "  wished  the  captain 
then,  a  man  of  strictly  professional  temper.  "  Here's 


176       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

this  little  rat  Van  Goor  been  devilin'  me  all  day  about 
the  grub  we  fed  his  blessed  coolies  in  the  'tween-decks. 
He  says  he'll  lose  a  week's  labor  off  the  lot  before 
they're  fit  for  work.  .  .  .  Well,  go  on,  go  on.  If  your 
blighter's  such  a  fool  as  you  say,  you  better  go  get 
him.  But  I'll  not  wait  past  midnight  —  mind  that. 
And  I  wish  you  joy  of  the  job." 

So  Nivin  came  ashore  at  dusk  to  wander  through 
the  same  streets  and  alleys  to  which  he  had  directed 
another's  erring  steps  at  dawn. 

He  sought  a  handsome  young  stranger  in  a  suit  of 
cream-colored  silk  and  a  dove-gray  helmet  with  pea 
cock  puggree.  Drunk,  probably.  Even  very  drunk. 
Possibly  violent  and  uproarious  —  this  was  Nivin's 
fear.  More  likely  to  be  fever-proofed  and  solidified  — 
this  was  Nivin's  hope.  Had  any  seen  such  a  wonder? 
None  had,  though  a  boatman  remembered  landing  the 
white  tuan  from  the  Lombock,  and  there  was  plain  tes 
timony  that  he  had  purchased  a  bottle  of  arrack  for 
three  dollars  and  a  half  Singapore  silver.  Beyond  that 
point  the  trail  evaporated.  Apparently  the  person  of 
Alfred  Poynter  Tunstal  had  dissolved  in  local  liquor. 

It  was  the  hour  of  lamp  lighting  when  the  mate  ar 
rived  at  Government  House  to  lay  his  quest  before  a 
genial  and  elephantine  official  in  white  ducks  who  was 
by  way  of  being  an  acquaintance  and  who  beamed 
upon  him  from  the  step.  "  You  los'  somebody?  Here? 
My  dear  fallow,  do  you  sink  you  are  in  Calcutta  or 
Kowloon?  Nosing  happens  here  to  sailormen  or  who 
ever.  Why,  zis  is  not  even  semicivilize',  wizout  one 
coffee  shop!  .  .  .  Unless,  of  course,  he  actually  in 
juries  ze  people." 

"  Ah,"  said  Nivin. 

"  In  zeir  pride,"  added  De  Haan  reflectively. 

"And  if  he  did?" 

De  Haan  smoothed  a  glossy  beard  with  a  deliberate 


EAST  OF  EASTWARD  177 

hand  the  size  of  a  spade.  He  was  controller  in  a  dis 
trict  of  some  tens  of  thousands  of  brown  population 
and  long  had  been,  and  his  father  before  him. 

"  If  he  did  —  I  cannot  say,"  he  answered.  "  In  such 
affairs  we  always  remember  zese  folk  haf  been  alife 
in  ze  land  a  few  years  before  us.  Who  shall  say? 
But  it  would  be  somesing  fitting  —  mos'  fitting  and 
op-propriate.  Zere  was  once  a  man  came  to  steal 
liddle  stone  pictures  from  old  temples  in  ze  hills.  He 
wanted  ze  heads  for  souvenirs,  you  see?"  He  rocked 
complacently.  "  I  haf  seen  his  head,  nicely  smoked. 
Which  was  alzo  a  souvenir." 

But  he  met  Nivin's  melancholy  gaze  and  his  tone 
changed. 

"  You  tell  me  you  los'  your  f nen'  at  Lol  Raman's  ? 
Haf  you  been  to  look?" 

"  Three  times.  There's  no  trace.  I  found  a  servant 
who  sold  the  lad  drink;  no  more." 

"  Come  wit'  me,  zen,"  said  the  controller.  "  And  do 
not  half  such  trouble  at  heart.  We  will  find  him.  He 
is  only  schleeping  off  zat  fever  cure." 

They  searched  high  and  low,  among  the  terraces 
and  through  the  water  front  where  De  Haan  ques 
tioned  all  manner  of  natives :  stolid,  self-possessed  lit 
tle  men  who  looked  him  between  the  eyes  at  answer 
ing  —  but  they  found  no  nook  wherein  Tunstal  might 
be  slumbering,  nor  any  clue,  and  Nivin's  lean  jaw 
lengthened. 

"  Your  fren'  was  come  alone  ?  "  asked  De  Haan,  puz 
zled. 

"Alone  and  early.  There  wouldn't  likely  be  any 
other  customer  at  that  time.  No  witnesses." 

"  It  is  all  right  now  —  do  not  be  tragic.  Nosing  of 
ze  kind  could  be.  We  will  see  ze  garden  again."  .  .  . 

But  all  they  saw  was  no  aid  to  the  case.  They  en 
tered  the  garden  of  Lol  Raman  to  find  it  disposed  as 
usual,  inviting  the  evening  trade.  Paper  lanterns 


178       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

swung  among  the  trees  like  phosphorescent  fruits  and 
drew  a  myriad  fluttering  moths.  As  if  the  glow  had 
drawn  them  too,  a  few  visitors  lounged  at  ease  about 
the  tables,  sipping  and  murmuring  languidly.  Some 
of  the  Lombock's  passengers  were  there,  notably  a 
smallish  man  with  shiny  skin  and  bulbous  eyes,  glit 
tering  and  predatory,  who  bowed  effusively  to  De 
Haan  and  received  a  cool  nod.  Gliding  here  and  yon, 
and  jiggling  a  tray  to  serve  the  general  need,  went  a 
waxen-faced  manikin.  Glasses  shone  and  sparkled. 
White  garments  showed  fresh  and  span.  And  farther 
back,  amid  the  shadows  under  the  big  palm,  could  be 
seen  the  vague  figure  of  the  presiding  genius  of  the 
place,  the  huge  red  ape,  huddled  in  the  attitude  of 
meditation. 

"All  ze  same,  hey?"  said  De  Haan.  "  Still  we  re 
main  a  liddle.  Perhaps  we  hear  somesing.  And  you, 
my  dear  fallow,  drink  zis." 

He  chose  a  table  in  the  arbor  near  a  magnificent 
rhododendron  and  poured  a  measure  of  golden  yellow 
liquid  from  a  ready  bottle,  and  the  mate  had  need  of 
the  same.  Nivin  was  paying  the  penalty  just  then  for 
unprofessional  weakness  and  the  mellower  streak  of 
his  nature,  as  those  of  his  type  have  often  to  pay  here 
below.  He  remembered  that  he  alone  had  guided 
Tunstal.  He  could  not  acquit  himself  for  whatever  ill 
had  befallen.  And  he  remembered  something  else  — 
another  evil  he  had  done  nothing  to  check  that  day  — 
the  passage  of  the  cinnabar  boat  with  her  ruddy  devils 
and  suspected  errand.  .  .  . 

"What  is  ze  matter  wit'  zat  beast?"  rumbled  De 
Haan,  frowning  over  his  shoulder.  "  He  don'  yell 
good  to-night.  He  acts  like  sick.  And  alzo  he  haf  no 
roll'  us  yet  one  single  cigarette.  Yet  here  is  plenty 
tobacco  too — " 

With  his  foot  he  pushed  within  the  circle  of  the 
chain  a  little  lacquer  box  and  a  packet  of  leaves,  but 


EAST  OF  EASTWARD  179 

when  he  turned  again  the  kindly  official  saw  that  his 
attempt  to  set  up  a  diversion  had  failed.  Nivin  looked 
leaner  and  more  leathery  than  ever,  and  his  eyes  had 
lighted  with  an  almost  fanatic  gleam  which  was  only 
partly  due  to  arrack  —  that  potential  drink.  "  It's  no 
use,  Mister  Controller,"  he  said.  "  And  I  thank  you 
for  meaning  well.  But  you  can't  keep  from  me  that 
something  awful  has  happened  to  the  boy  I  sent  from 
the  Lombock  so  free  and  careless." 

De  Haan  squirmed  through  all  his  thick  bulk. 
"  Don'  speak  so  wit'  a  pain,  my  dear  fallow,"  he  urged. 
"  I  do  not  admit  it.  We  haf  yet  to  see." 

"  I  can  see.  You  try  to  tell  me  certain  crimes  are 
spared  you  here.  I  take  it  you  mean  such  deviltry 
as  grows  where  foreigners  have  rotted  a  native 
country?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  De  Haan. 

"  And  that's  true ;  they  do  rot  it.  I  always  thought 
this  place  was  clean,  just  as  you  claim,  because  so  few 
whites  pass  through  —  a  plain,  decent,  wholesome  race 
that  keeps  its  self-respect  and  harms  none  till  trod 
upon." 

"  Yes." 

Nivin  leaned  across  at  him.  "  But  the  rotters  are 
in.  They're  at  their  slimy  work,  grubbin'  for  profit 
through  muck.  And  after  that  what's  to  be  trusted  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  De  Haan. 

"  Such  people  as  that  rat  Van  Goor  over  there  — " 
He  jerked  a  thumb  toward  the  bulbous-eyed  man. 

"We  watch  zem.  Zat  is  what  we  are  here  for. 
Meanwhile  zey  bring  development.  If  zey  misbehave, 
we  sling  zem  out  quick." 

"And  the  coolies  they  bring — scum  of  the  earth. 
Do  you  watch  them?" 

"  Of  course." 

"And  you  never  caught  them  yet  at  their  slave 


180       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

trade  planted  right  in   the   heart  of  your  people  ? " 

De  Haan  stiffened  in  his  chair.  "  What  are  you 
trying  to  say?  Zis  is  fool  talk  of  ze  river." 

"  Native  women  sold  into  slavery  to  the  cinnabar 
mines  to  hell  and  death.  Soul  traffic,  the  fine  flower 
of  civilization.  Here  in  these  lovely  islands !  " 

"  I  tell  you  it  can't  be !  " 

"  The  boats,  man.  The  cinnabar  boats.  Can  you 
answer  for  their  trade  up  and  down  and  about  — 
transporting  commodities  to  supply  the  gangs?" 

"  We  inspect  every  one  of  zem  here,  at  ze  water 
front.  Zere  is  nosing  nor  anywhere  to  hide  such  do 
ings.  You,  zat  speak  to  the  shame  of  our  people  — 
prove  it  if  you  can ! " 

"  What  if  I  could?  "  cried  Nivin. 

"  What  if  you  could?  "  De  Haan  doubled  his  hands 
before  him,  the  kind  of  big,  white,  capable  hands  that 
deliberately  and  quietly  have  molded  the  most  success 
ful  and  the  least  troublesome  colonial  empire  in  the 
world.  "  What  if  you  could  ?  By  Godd,  we  would 
take  ze  man  who  did  it  and  break  him  in  liddle  pieces ! 
Can  you  prove  it?  Speak  now  and  let  me  hear  your 
proof.  By  Godd,  I  tell  you  zis  is  my  gountry  —  our 
gountry,  our  people!  Not  dirt,  but  men  and  women. 
Not  chattels,  not  slaves ;  not  —  not  — " 

There  broke  a  sharp  click  and  rattle  of  steel  links. 
They  turned  at  the  sound.  Under  the  big  palm  the 
red-haired  ape  had  started  into  vehement  life,  bounc 
ing  at  his  leash.  .  .  . 

Nivin  had  fallen  back  into  his  chair  again,  silenced, 
baffled,  for  he  had  no  proof  to  give.  De  Haan  still 
held  the  pose  of  challenge,  glancing  over  his  shoulder. 
Both  of  them  watched  the  ungainly  creature  reeling  in 
the  shadows;  both  of  them  observed  the  gestures  by 
which  he  seemed  to  solicit  their  attention. 

He  had  taken  a  leaf  of  the  raw  tobacco  and  adding 


EAST  OF  EASTWARD  181 

a  pinch  for  filler  was  trying  to  twist  the  spill.  And 
he  could  not.  It  became  evident  to  them  that  he  could 
not.  The  fingers  moved  painfully,  trembling.  .  .  . 
Curious  fingers  he  had,  stumpy  and  thick  and  clumsy 
as  if  covered  with  ragged  gloves,  wholly  unequal  to 
the  delicate  task. 

Slowly  Nivin  levered  his  lank  frame  out  of  the  chair 
and  moved  a  pace  like  a  somnambulist  and  stood  star 
ing  at  those  fingers.  He  straightened  and  transfixed 
De  Haan.  "Where's  your  police?"  he  whispered. 
"  Guns  —  soldiers  —  something  — !  " 

"What?    What  is  it?" 

Nivin  stood  braced  like  a  man  at  the  edge  of  a 
precipice. 

"  To  hold  this  place." 

De  Haan  looked  around  over  the  patch  of  lighted 
garden  into  the  banks  of  shrubbery  and  further  dim 
tree  shapes. 

"  I  hold  zis  place,"  he  said  simply,  bulking  big  and 
broad.  "  I  am  here.  None  of  my  people  will  harm 
us  now,  whatever  zey  may  haf  done,  whatever  you 
may  mean.  And  zen — ?" 

Without  a  word  Nivin  stepped  into  the  circle  about 
the  palm,  stepped  up  to  the  crouching,  sinister  captive, 
flung  an  arm  about  him  and  seemed  to  wrestle.  A 
knife  wrought  swiftly  in  his  hand  with  little  flashes. 

" N-n-not  —  not  —  not  monkeys!"  burst  a  broken 
voice,  sobbing  with  eagerness  to  top  the  phrase. 

And  in  the  fantastic  glow  of  paper  lanterns  stood 
Alfred  Poynter  Tunstal,  surely  the  strangest  figure  to 
which  a  dapper  and  sophisticated  seeker  after  truth 
was  ever  reduced,  with  a  face  blackened  and  unrecog 
nizable  like  a  hideous  caricature  and  slashed  across  by 
the  raw  wound  of  his  recent  gag,  clad,  head  to  heel, 
in  the  plastered  red  hide  of  a  monstrous  orang-utan, 
the  true  jungle  man ! 


182       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

So  he  stood  to  give  testimony  and  make  atonement 
for  various  things. 

"  Not  monkeys ! "  he  gasped  hysterically.  "  / 
thought  so  —  7  thought  they  were  —  and  they  made 
a  monkey  out  of  me !  " 

He  swayed  and  straightened  in  Nivin's  grip. 

"  I  killed  their  ape.  I  put  the  touch  of  dishonor  on 
a  brown  skin.  And  they  served  me  proper  for  it  — 
proper.  But  I've  got  the  proof  you  want.  .  .  . 

"All  day  I've  been  sitting  there,  under  that  tree. 
The  man  —  the  man  who  bought  those  cinnabar  girls 

—  he  came  to  talk  business. 

"  It's  true.  He  gets  those  girls  in  starving  villages. 
They  engage  for  service ;  that's  all.  They  don't  know 

—  don't  understand  —  till  too  late.  .  .  .  Three  of  them 
now  in  that  house  back  there  waiting  shipment !   Blind 
victims  —  an  incidental  side  line  to  Lol  Raman !  " 

"Who?"  thundered  De  Haan!" 

A  long,  hairy  arm  shot  out  accusing. 

"  That  greasy  little  cur  over  there.  Van  Goor,  the 
agent.  Stop  him!" 

The  controller  stopped  him.  "  Zis,"  he  observed, 
"  zis  is  mos'  op-propriate !  "  .  .  . 

And  Alfred  Poynter  Tunstal,  recovering  as  he  went, 
continued  his  journey  eastward  as  soon  and  as  fast  as 
ever  he  could  make  it  until  East  became  West  again. 
He  brought  home  few  records  of  his  travels,  and,  curi 
ously,  he  had  not  collected  a  single  globe-trotting  tale 
of  wickedness  and  mystery.  But  one  result  of  his 
voyaging  was  marked.  He  carried  a  scar — acquired 
in  some  slight  accident  —  which  ran  from  each  corner 
of  his  mouth  in  a  thin  line  and  which  transformed  his 
original  cheerful  chubbiness  into  an  expression  quite 
grim  and  taciturn.  He  had  lost  his  cherubic  smile. 


JETSAM 

IT  is  likely  that  at  some  time  in  his  extreme  youth 
Junius  Peabody  was  introduced  to  those  single- 
minded  creatures,  the  ant  and  the  bee.  Doubtless 
he  was  instructed  in  the  highly  moral  lessons  they  are 
supposed  to  illustrate  to  the  inquiring  mind  of  child 
hood.  But  it  is  certain  he  never  profited  by  the  ac 
quaintance —  indeed,  the  contemplation  of  such  tena 
cious  industry  must  have  afflicted  his  infant  conscious 
ness  with  utter  repugnance.  By  the  time  he  was 
twenty-seven  the  only  living  thing  that  could  be  said 
to  have  served  him  as  a  model  was  the  jellyfish. 

Now  the  jellyfish  pursues  a  most  amiable  theory  of 
life,  being  harmless,  humorous,  and  decorative.  It 
derives  much  enjoyment  from  drifting  along  through 
the  glitter  and  froth,  as  chance  may  direct.  It  does 
no  work  to  speak  of.  It  never  needs  to  get  anywhere. 
And  it  never,  never  has  to  go  thirsty.  But  some  day 
it  may  get  itself  stranded,  and  then  the  poor  jellyfish 
becomes  an  object  quite  worthless  and  fit  only  to  be 
shoveled  out  of  sight  as  soon  as  possible  —  because  it 
lacks  the  use  of  its  legs. 

Thus  it  was  with  Junius  Peabody,  who  awoke  one 
morning  of  his  twenty-eighth  year  on  the  roaring  coral 
beach  at  Fufuti  below  Bendemeer's  place  to  find  that 
all  the  chances  had  run  out  and  that  the  glitter  had 
faded  finally  from  a  prospect  as  drab  as  the  dawn 
spread  over  a  butternut  sea  before  him.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Peabody  sat  up  and  looked  about  from  under 
a  corrugated  brow  and  yawned  and  shivered.  His 
nerves  had  been  reduced  to  shreds,  and  even  the  fierc 
est  heat  of  tropic  suns  seemed  never  to  warm  him,  a 

183 


184       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

symptom  familiar  enough  to  brandy  drunkards.  But  he 
had  had  such  awakenings  before,  many  of  them,  and 
the  chill  that  struck  through  him  on  this  particular 
morning  was  worse  than  any  hang-over.  It  was  the 
soul  of  Junius  Peabody  that  felt  cold  and  sick,  and 
when  he  fumbled  through  his  pockets  —  the  subtle 
relation  between  the  pockets  and  the  soul  is  a  point 
sadly  neglected  by  our  best  little  psychologists  —  he 
uncovered  a  very  definite  reason.  His  last  penny  was 
gone. 

Under  the  shock  of  conviction  Mr.  Peabody  sought 
to  cast  up  the  mental  log,  in  the  hope  of  determining 
where  he  was  and  how  he  came  to  be  there. 

The  entries  were  badly  blurred,  but  he  could  trace 
himself  down  through  Port  Said,  Colombo,  Singapore 
—  his  recollections  here  were  limited  to  a  woman's  face 
in  a  balcony  and  the  cloying  aroma  of  anisette.  He 
remembered  a  stop  at  Sydney,  where  he  made  the  re 
markable  discovery  that  the  Circular  Quay  was  com 
pletely  circular  and  could  be  circumnavigated  in  a 
night.  After  that  he  had  a  sketchy  impression  of  the 
Shanghai  race  meeting  and  a  mad  sort  of  trip  in  a 
private  yacht  full  of  Australian  sheep-something  — 
kings,  perhaps ;  tremendous  fellows,  anyway,  of  amaz 
ing  capacity.  And  then  Manila,  of  course,  the  place 
where  he  hired  an  ocean-going  tug  to  urge  a  broken 
date  on  the  coy  ingenue  of  a  traveling  Spanish  opera 
company.  And  then  Macao,  where  he  found  and  lost 
her  again,  as  coy  as  ever,  together  with  his  wallet. 
And  after  that  the  hectic  session  when  he  and  a  Nor 
wegian  schooner  captain  hit  the  bank  at  fan-tan  and 
swore  eternal  friendship  amid  the  champagne  baskets 
on  the  schooner's  decks  under  a  complicated  moon.  It 
was  this  same  captain  who  had  landed  him  finally  — 
the  baskets  having  been  emptied  —  at  the  point  of  a 
boot  on  the  strand  where  now  he  sat.  So  much  was 
still  quite  clear  and  recent,  within  range  of  days. 


JETSAM  185 

Always  through  the  maze  of  these  memoirs  ran  one 
consistent  and  tragic  motive  —  a  dwindling  letter  of 
credit,  the  fag  end  of  his  considerable  patrimony.  It 
had  expired  painlessly  at  last,  the  night  before  if  he 
could  trust  his  head,  for  there  had  been  a  noble  wake. 
He  recalled  the  inscrutable  face  of  the  tall  white  man 
behind  the  bar  who  had  cashed  it  for  him  after  a  rate 
of  exchange  of  his  own  grim  devising.  And  he  re 
called,  too,  a  waif  bit  of  their  conversation  as  he 
signed  the  ultimate  coupon. 

"  You  can  date  it  Fufuti,"  suggested  Bendemeer,  and 
spelled  the  name  for  him. 

"  And  where  —  where  the  devil  is  Fufuti  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Three  thousand  miles  from  the  next  pub,"  said 
Bendemeer,  with  excessively  dry  significance. 

The  phrase  came  back  to  him  now.  .  .  . 

"  In  that  case,"  decided  Junius  Peabody,  aloud, 
" — in  that  case  there's  no  use  trying  to  borrow  car 
fare,  and  it's  too  far  to  walk.  I'm  stuck." 

Some  one  sniffed  beside  him,  and  he  turned  to  stare 
into  a  face  that  might  have  been  a  distortion  of  his 
own  yellow,  haggard  image. 

"  Hello,"  he  said  —  and  then,  by  natural  sequence : 
"  say,  you  don't  happen  to  have  a  flask  anywhere 
handy  about  you  —  what  ?  " 

His  neighbor  scowled  aggrievedly. 

"  Do  I  look  like  I  'ad  a  flask  ?  " 

The  belligerent  whine  was  enough  to  renew  the 
identity  of  the  mangy  little  larrikin  whose  couch  on 
the  sand  he  had  shared.  The  Sydney  Duck,  they  called 
him:  a  descriptive  title  which  served  as  well  as  any. 
Junius  did  not  like  him  very  well,  but  he  had  lived 
in  his  company  nearly  a  week  and  he  had  long  for 
gotten  to  make  effective  distinctions.  Brandy  is  a 
great  democrat. 


186       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

"  It's  my  notion  I'm.  going  to  have  the  fantods," 
explained  Junius.  "  I  need  a  bracer." 

"  My  word,  I  could  do  with  a  nip  meself  just  now," 
agreed  Sydney.  "  'In't  y'  got  no  more  credit  with 
Bendemeer?" 

Peabody  made  an  effort. 

"  Seems  to  me  I  was  thrown  out  of  Bendemeer's  last 
night.  Is  that  right?" 

"  You  was,  and  so  was  me  and  that  big  Dutchman, 
Willems  —  all  thrown  out.  But  it  was  your  fault. 
You  started  playin'  chuck  farthin'  among  his  bottles 
with  a  bunch  of  copper  spikes.  ...  I  never  see  a  man 
'old  his  liquor  worse." 

"  Well,  I  paid  for  it,  didn't  I  ? "  inquired  Junius, 
without  heat.  "  And  I  believe  you  had  your  share. 
But  what  I'm  getting  at  is  —  if  he  threw  me  out  the 
credit  must  be  gone." 

This  was  simple  logic  and  unanswerable.  "  Maybe 
y'  got  something  else  he'll  tyke  for  th'  price,"  sug 
gested  Sydney.  "  Damn  'im  — 'e's  keen  enough  to 
drive  a  tryde !  " 

Junius  went  through  the  form  of  searching,  but 
without  any  great  enthusiasm,  nor  was  Sydney  himself 
notably  expectant  —  a  fact  that  might  have  seemed  to 
argue  a  rather  sinister  familiarity  with  the  probable 
result. 

"  I  did  have  some  cuff  links  and  things,"  said  Pea- 
body  vaguely.  "  I  wonder  what's  become  of  them." 

"  I  wonder,"  echoed  Sydney.  As  if  some  last  pos 
sible  claim  upon  his  regard  had  been  dissipated,  he 
let  his  lips  writhe  in  mockery.  "  Ah,  and  that's  a 
pity  too.  You  got  to  learn  now  what  it  means  bein' 
on  the  beach  and  doin'  without  drinks  — 'cept  as  you 
kin  cadge  them  off'n  'alf-caste  Chinymen  and  such. 
You  won't  like  it,  you  won't." 

"  Do  you?  "  asked  Junius. 


JETSAM  187 

"  Me  ?  I'm  used  to  it.  But,  Lord,  look  at  them 
'ands!  I'll  lay  you  never  did  a  day's  work  in  your 
life." 

"  Did  you  ?  "  inquired  Junius  Peabody  equably. 

"  Garn ! "  retorted  Sydney  with  a  peculiarly  un 
lovely  sneer.  "  W'y,  you  don't  know  yet  what  you've 
come  to,  you  don't.  'Jaimes,  fetch  me  me  mornin' 
drawft ! ' —  that's  your  style.  Only  there  'int  no 
Jaimes  no  more,  and  no  drawf  ts  to  be  'ad.  Ho ! .  .  . 
You're  only  a  beachcomber  now,  mytey.  A  lousy 
beachcomber !  And  you  needn't  expect  me  to  do  none 
of  your  beggin'  for  you,  for  I  won't  —  no  fear !  " 

Junius  observed  him  with  attention,  with  rather 
more  attention  than  he  could  remember  having  be 
stowed  upon  any  specific  object  for  a  long  time.  He 
examined  the  features  of  the  Sydney  Duck,  the  undue 
prominence  of  nose  and  upper  lip,  the  singularly  sharp 
ridge  of  the  whole  front  face  —  whittled,  as  it  might 
have  been ;  the  thin,  pink  ears  and  the  jutting  teeth 
that  gave  him  something  of  the  feeble  ferocity  of  a  rat. 
And  with  new  perception  he  saw  Sydney  Duck,  not 
only  as  an  unpleasant  individual  but  as  a  type,  the 
fitting  comrade  and  associate  for  such  as  he. 

"  It's  a  fact,"  said  Junius  Peabody ;  "  I've  fallen 
pretty  low."  .  .  . 

He  looked  out  again  upon  that  unprofitable  dawn 
ing.  To  right  and  left  stretched  the  flat,  dim  monot 
ony  of  the  beach,  lined  in  misty  surf  and  hedged  with 
slim  palms  like  a  tufted  palisade.  From  behind  drifted 
the  smokes  from  scores  of  homely  hearths.  Down  by 
Tenbow  Head  the  first  pearling  luggers  were  putting 
out  under  silver  clouds  of  sail.  Sea  and  land  stirred 
once  more  with  the  accustomed  affairs  of  busy  men, 
but  here  between  land  and  sea  was  the  fringe  of 
things,  the  deserted  domain  of  wreckage  and  cast-off 
remnants.  Here  lay  a  broken  spar  half  buried  in  the 


188       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

sand,  part  of  the  complex  fabric  that  once  enabled 
some  fair  ship  to  skim  the  waves.  And  here  among  the 
kelp  and  the  bodies  of  marine  animals  he  saw  the 
loosened  staves  of  a  barrel  limply  spread  and  upthrust 
like  the  fingers  of  some  dead  giant,  with  an  empty  bot 
tle  near  by  as  if  fallen  from  that  slack  grip.  And  here, 
lastly,  he  was  aware  of  Junius  Peabody,  also  on  the 
beach,  washed  up  at  the  far  edge  of  the  world  like  any 
other  useless  bit  of  jetsam :  to  stay  and  to  rot. 

"  Pretty  low,"  said  Junius  Peabody. 

But  Sydney  took  no  offense,  and  seemed,  on  the 
contrary,  to  extract  a  certain  degree  of  pleasure  from 
the  other's  recognition  of  his  lot. 

"  Oh,  it  'in't  so  bad,"  he  declared,  with  a  quite 
human  impulse  to  reverse  the  picture.  "  There's  easy 
pickin'  if  you  know  'ow.  Nobody  starves  'ere  anyw'y, 
that's  one  thing.  No  nigger  will  let  a  man  starve  — 
a  soft  lot  of  flats  that  w'y,  the  niggers.  Often  you 
fall  in  with  a  weddin'  or  a  birthday  or  somethin'; 
they're  always  'avin'  a  feast  and  they  don't  care  who 
comes  —  they  'in't  proud.  Then  you  got  nobody 
aharryin'  of  you  up  and  down  and  askin'  you  wot  for, 
that's  a  comfort  —  my  word!  And  once  in  a  while 
there's  sure  to  be  a  new  chum  come  along  with 
a  bit  of  brass  —  some  flat  who's  willin'  to  stand 
the  drinks." 

"  Like  me,"  suggested  Junius. 

"  Oh.  there's  plenty  like  you,"  nodded  the  Sydney 
Duck.  "  It's  the  pearlin'  brings  'em,  though  it  'in't 
so  soft  as  maybe  they  think,  you  see.  When  they're 
stony  they  mostly  tyke  a  job  till  they  find  a  chance 
to  get  aw'y  again  —  that's  if  they're  able  to  do  any 
thing  at  all." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  probably,  Junius  Pea- 
body  considered  his  accomplishments  with  a  view 
to  estimating  their  value  in  the  open  market. 

"  I  once  won  the  fancy  diving  event  at  Trav.ers 


JETSAM  189 

Island,"  he  said.  "  And  I  used  to  swim  the  four-forty 
in  a  trifle  over  six  minutes." 

"  That  must  'a'  been  several  seasons  back,"  grinned 
Sydney. 

"  Not  so  many,"  said  Junius  slowly.  "  I  forgot  to 
add  that  I  was  also  an  excellent  judge  of  French 
brandy." 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  began  to  divest  himself  of  the 
spotted  remains  of  an  expensive  white  silk  suit. 

"  What's  the  gyme  now  ?  " 

"  Morning  bath.    Have  you  had  yours  yet?" 

The  Sydney  Duck  laughed,  laughter  that  was 
strangely  unmirthful  and  so  convulsive  that  Junius 
blinked  at  him,  fearing  a  fit  of  some  kind. 

"  You're  a  rare  Jun,"  gasped  the  Sydney  Duck.  "  I 
seen  a  good  few,  I  'ave,  but  none  as  rare  as  you. 
Mornin'  bawth  —  and  'ave  I  'ad  mine  yet !  .  .  .  On  the 
beach  at  Fufuti !  "  He  waggled  his  hands. 

"  Well,  if  it  seems  so  queer  as  all  that  why  not  blow 
yourself?"  offered  Junius  with  perfect  good  nature. 
"  You  can't  tell,  you  might  like  it.  Come  along." 

"  Garn !  "  snarled  the  other. 

So  Junius  turned  away  and  walked  down  the  strand 
alone.  Outward  the  ground  swell  broke  and  came 
rushing  in  with  long-spaced  undulations,  and  as  he 
stood  at  the  verge,  shrinking  in  his  nakedness,  the  east 
flamed  suddenly  through  its  great  red  archway  and 
turned  all  the  world  to  tinted  glory.  Fair  across  to 
him  was  flung  a  shining  path.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had 
only  to  step  out  along  that  straight  way  of  escape,  and 
for  an  instant  he  had  a  yearning  to  try.  Never  in  his 
life  had  he  followed  a  single  course  to  a  definite  end, 
and  what  could  be  better  now  than  to  choose  one  at 
last,  to  follow,  to  go  on  following —  and  not  to  return. 

He  looked  down  at  his  body  and  saw  as  a  revelation 
the  pitiful  wasting  of  his  strength  —  how  scrawny  he 


190       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

was  of  limb,  how  bloated  about  the  middle,  and  his 
skin  how  soft  and  leprous  white.  He  made  an  ugly 
figure  under  the  clear  light  of  the  morning,  like  the 
decaying  things  around  him,  where  the  carrion  flies 
were  beginning  to  swarm  in  the  sun.  And  there  came 
upon  him  then  a  sudden  physical  loathing  of  himself, 
a  final  sense  of  disaster  and  defeat. 

"  If  I  could  only  begin  again  — "  thought  Junius 
Peabody,  and  stopped  and  laughed  aloud  at  the  wish, 
which  is  old  as  folly  and  futile  as  sin.  But  he  had  no 
relief  from  laughter  either,  for  it  was  the  same  he  had 
just  heard  from  the  Sydney  Duck,  a  sort  of  hiccup. 
So  he  stopped  that  too  and  strode  forthright  into  the 
wash.  .  .  . 

Something  flung  against  his  shin  and  tripped  him. 
He  sprawled  awkwardly  from  a  singular  impact,  soft 
though  quite  solid.  He  could  see  the  object  floating 
on  the  next  wave  and  was  curious  enough  to  catch  it 
up.  It  was  a  rough  lump  of  some  substance,  a  dirty 
grayish-brown  in  color,  the  size  of  a  boy's  football. 
The  touch  of  it  was  rather  greasy. 

Junius  stayed  with  the  trove  in  his  hands  and  the 
tingling  of  an  odd  excitement  in  his  mind.  His  first 
instinct  rejected  the  evidence.  He  had  a  natural  sus 
picion  that  events  do  not  happen  so.  But  while  he 
brought  to  bear  such  knowledge  as  he  owned,  facts 
read  or  heard,  he  found  himself  still  thrilled. 

There  was  a  sound  from  the  shore  and  the  Sydney 
Duck  hurried  up  behind  him  to  the  edge  of  the  water, 
both  hands  clawed,  his  little  eyes  distended. 

"  You've  got  it ! "  He  took  two  steps  after  a  re 
treating  wave,  but  the  next  drove  him  hopping.  It  was 
strange  to  see  the  fellow  drawn  by  a  frantic  eagerness 
and  chased  again  by  the  merest  flicker  of  foam,  lifting 
his  feet  as  gingerly  as  a  cat. 

"  What  have  I  got?  "  asked  Junius,  standing  at  mid- 
thigh  where  the  surf  creamed  in  between  them. 


JETSAM  191 

"It's  the  stuff!  Chuck  it  over  —  wha-i-i !  "  Syd 
ney's  voice  rose  to  a  squeal  as  a  frothing  ripple  caught 
his  toes. 

Junius  came  wading  shoreward,  but  he  did  not  re 
linquish  the  lump  when  the  other  felt  and  paddled 
it  feverishly,  babbling. 

"  Look  at  that  —  look  at  that !  All  smooth  an'  soft 
—  an'  kind  of  slimy,  like.  Oh,  no,  we  'in't  struck  it 
fair  rich  this  time,  nor  nothin'  —  oh,  now!  .  .  .  Mytey, 
I  tell  you  —  by  Gaw',  I  tell  you  it's  the  real  stuff ! " 

"  But  oughtn't  there  be  an  odor —   a  perfume?" 

"  Not  yet  —  not  while  it's  fresh.  That  comes  after. 
And  any'ow,  what  else  could  it  be — 'ey?  " 

Junius  shook  his  head. 

"  'Ere,  I'll  show  you,  you  poor  flat !  "  The  larrikin 
raged  about  like  a  man  in  a  strong  temper.  "  Where's 
a  nail?  Gimme  a  nail,  a  long  nail,  or  a  piece  of  wire  — 
'ell,  I'll  show  you !  " 

He  snatched  up  a  strip  of  planking  from  the  sand 
and  wrenched  a  rusty  spike  from  it.  With  swift  jerky 
gestures  he  gathered  a  few  dry  chips  and  splinters, 
whipped  a  match,  and  set  them  alight.  In  this  brief 
blaze  he  heated  the  spike  and  then  applied  it  to  the 
lump.  It  sank  smoothly,  leaving  a  little  melted  ring 
around  the  hole. 

"  Ambergris  !  "  he  yelped.  "  Worth  near  two  pound 
an  ounce,  right  'ere  in  Fufuti.  .  .  .  And  the  'arf  of  it's 
mine,"  he  added,  with  a  startling  shift  to  the  most 
brazen  impudence. 

Junius  regarded  him,  incredulous. 
"What?  That's  wot!  Wasn't  I  here?  Tn't  I 
been  pallin'  along  of  you?  It's  a  fair  divvy.  W'y, 
damn  your  soul,"  he  screamed  in  a  sudden  febrile  blast 
of  fury,  "  you  don't  think  you're  goin'  to  'og  my  'arf 
an'  all ! " 

"  Your  half !  "  repeated  Junius.  "  Huh  —  nothing 
small  about  you,  is  there?  Why,  you  weren't 


192       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

where  near  when  I  found  it.    Didn't  you  pass  up  the 
swim  ?  " 

Just  here  the  Sydney  Duck  made  his  mistake.  Had 
he  proceeded  with  any  finesse,  with  any  understand 
ing  of  his  man,  he  might  have  done  about  as  he  pleased 
and  it  is  likely  that  little  of  moment  would  have  tran 
spired  on  Fufuti  beach  that  morning.  But  he  acted 
by  his  lights,  which  were  narrow  and  direct,  and  he 
hit  Junius  Peabody  suddenly  in  the  smiling  face  of  him 
and  knocked  him  reeling  backward.  The  next  instant 
he  was  running  for  the  nearest  palms  with  the  prize 
tucked  under  one  arm. 

Junius  sat  on  the  sand  and  blinked,  and  at  first  he 
felt  rather  hurt,  for  he  was  not  used  to  being  treated 
so,  at  least  not  while  he  was  sober.  And  thereafter  he 
grinned,  for  such  was  his  way  of  turning  aside  a  casual 
unpleasantness,  and  the  thing  undeniably  had  its  hu 
morous  aspect.  But  finally  came  the  throb  of  a  strange 
new  emotion,  as  if  some  one  had  planted  a  small,  hot 
coal  in  his  breast. 

It  is  a  fact  worthy  of  note  that  never  before  had 
Junius  Peabody  known  the  sting  of  a  living  anger. 
But  never  before  had  Junius  Peabody  been  reduced 
to  a  naked  Junius  Peabody,  dot  and  carry  nothing 
—  penniless,  desperate,  and  now  cheated  of  a  last  hope. 
That  made  the  difference. 

"  Hey !  "  he  protested.  "  See  here,  you  know  — 
Dammit!" 

He  struggled  up  and  climbed  anyhow  into  trousers, 
coat,  and  shoes,  and  set  off  at  a  shambling  trot,  with 
no  clear  notion  of  what  he  meant  to  do  but  keeping 
the  larrikin  in  sight. 

Sydney  dodged  in  among  the  trees,  found  them  too 
scant  for  cover,  paused  to  fling  a  yellow  snarl  over 
his  shoulder,  and  swung  up  the  shore.  He  turned, 
questing  here  and  there,  shouting  as  he  ran,  and  pres- 


JETSAM  193 

cntly  raised  an  answering  shout  from  a  hollow  whence 
another  figure  started  up  to  join  him,  a  bearded,  heavy- 
set  rogue,  whose  abnormally  long  arms  dangled  like 
an  ape's  out  of  his  sleeveless  shirt.  Junius  recognized 
Willems,  the  third  of  their  party  the  night  before,  and 
he  knew  where  the  interest  of  that  sullen  big  Hollander 
would  lie.  He  had  a  coalition  of  thievery  against  him 
now.  The  two  beachcombers  ran  on  together,  footing 
briskly  past  the  long  boat  sheds  and  the  high  white 
veranda  of  Bendemeer's  place.  .  .  . 

Under  this  iron  thatch  stood  the  man  Bendemeer 
himself,  cool  and  lathy  in  spotless  ducks,  planted  there, 
as  was  his  morning  custom,  to  oversee  and  command 
all  his  little  capital.  And  in  truth  it  was  a  kingdom's 
capital,  the  center  of  a  trading  monopoly  of  the  old 
type  and  chief  seat  of  as  strange  and  absolute  a  tyrant 
as  the  world  still  offers  room  for ;  rich,  powerful,  inde 
pendent,  fearing  nothing  between  heaven  and  hell  and 
at  once  the  best-loved  and  the  best-hated  individual  in 
his  sphere  of  influence. 

Bendemeer,  trader,  philanthropist,  and  purveyor  of 
rotgut,  was  one  of  those  unclassed  growths  of  the 
South  Seas  that  almost  constitute  a  new  racial  type. 
Nobody  could  have  placed  his  nationality  or  his  caste 
or  his  accent.  His  name  was  of  a  piece  with  the  grim 
self-sufficiency  that  gave  nothing  and  asked  nothing: 
an  obvious  jest,  borrowed  from  the  Persian  song  of 
an  Irish  poet,  but  the  one  touch  of  fancy  about  him. 
Somewhere,  somehow,  he  had  taken  a  cynic  twist  or 
a  rankling  wound  that  had  turned  his  white  man's 
blood  once  for  all.  They  tell  stories  of  such  cases  up 
and  down  the  islands,  and  mostly  the  stories  are  very 
ugly  and  discreditable  indeed.  But  not  so  concerning 
Bendemeer;  against  whom  was  no  scandal,  only  curses 
and  bitterness.  For  his  peculiarity  took  the  especially 
irritating  form  of  fair  dealings  with  some  thousands 
of  brown-skinned  natives  and  no  dealings  at  all  with 


194       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

any  man  of  his  own  color  —  except  to  beat  him  at 
strict  business  and  then  to  sell  him  as  much  villainous 
liquor  as  he  could  at  the  highest  possible  price.  As  he 
leaned  there  indolently  in  his  doorway  with  arms  folded 
and  cheroot  between  his  thin  lips  he  could  measure  his 
own  land  as  far  as  he  could  see  on  either  side,  a  small 
part  of  his  holdings  in  plantations  and  trading  stations 
throughout  the  archipelago.  Offshore,  behind  the  only 
good  strip  of  barrier  reef  and  near  the  only  navigable 
channel  on  the  south  coast,  lay  anchored  his  Likely 
Jane,  flagship  of  a  smart  little  navy.  His  gang  of  boys 
was  hustling  cargo  out  of  her  in  surfboats,  and  both 
boys  and  boats  were  the  handiest  and  ablest  that  could 
be  found  anywhere  for  that  ticklish  work.  He  had 
only  to  turn  his  head  to  view  the  satisfactory  bulk  of 
his  sheds  and  dependencies,  solid,  new-painted.  The 
house  at  his  back  was  trim,  broad,  and  comfortable,  and 
in  the  storeroom  underneath  lay  thousands  of  dollars' 
worth  of  assorted  trade  goods,  all  of  which  would 
eventually  become  copra  and  great  wealth. 

This  was  the  man,  decidedly  in  possession  of  his  own 
legs  and  able  to  stand  and  to  navigate  on  the  same,  to 
whom  Junius  Peabody  appealed  in  his  wretched 
need.  .  .  . 

Junius  stumbled  up  to  the  steps.  The  burst  had 
marrow-drawn  him,  his  lungs  labored  pitifully  as  if  he 
were  breathing  cotton  wool.  It  was  hot,  for  the  sun 
had  sprung  wide  like  an  opened  furnace  gate,  but  he 
had  not  started  a  pore. 

"  I've  been  robbed,"  he  wheezed,  and  pointed  a  wav 
ering  hand.  "  Those  chaps  there  —  robbed  —  !  " 

Bendemeer  glanced  aside  up  the  strand  after  the  dis 
appearing  ruffians  and  then  down  at  the  complainant, 
but  otherwise  he  did  not  move,  only  stayed  considering 
from  his  lean,  leathery  mask,  with  still  eyes,  outward- 
looking. 


JETSAM  195 

"What  do  you  care?"  he  said  idly.  "You'll  be 
dead  in  a  month  anyhow." 

Junius  gaped  toward  him  dizzily.  The  fellow  was 
the  local  authority  and  besides  had  taken  his  money. 
He  could  not  believe  that  he  had  heard  aright.  "  But, 
say  —  they've  stolen  my  property !  " 

Bendemeer  shot  a  blue  ring  of  smoke  into  the  sun 
shine.  "  In  that  case  you've  lost  it.  They're  heading 
for  the  Rocks,  and  once  they've  gone  to  earth  there 
you  never  could  find  them —  you'd  be  torn  to  pieces 
if  you  did." 

He  flicked  the  ash  of  his  cheroot  in  a  pause.  "  I  sup 
pose  you  mean  I  might  help  you,"  he  continued.  "  I 
might,  but  I  won't.  I've  seen  a  good  many  of  your 
kind  before,  drift  stuff  that  gets  washed  up  on  the 
beach.  You're  not  worth  it.  And  now,  since  you  have 
no  further  business  with  me,  I'd  be  obliged  if  you'd 
kindly  get  the  hell  out  of  my  front  yard.  You're  in 
terfering  with  the  view."  .  .  . 

Junius  Peabody  found  himself  groping  away  through 
the  sunlight  on  Fufuti  beach  once  more.  A  dead  calm 
held  the  air.  Under  the  steady,  low  organ  note  of 
the  reef  he  could  hear  only  the  drag  of  his  own  steps, 
the  curious,  unforgetable  "  shr-ring  "  of  boot  leather 
on  coral. 

It  was  borne  upon  him  then  that  he  had  just  ac 
quired  a  liberal  education,  that  he  had  learned  more 
essential  facts  within  the  last  hour  than  he  had  ever 
gained  before  in  his  twenty-odd  years  —  a  tabloid  of 
life  —  and  too  late  to  be  of  any  use.  Such  abstrac 
tions  are  sometimes  valuable  to  a  man,  but  they  are 
not  the  sort  that  brings  a  lump  in  his  throat  and  a 
winking  in  his  eyes.  The  thing,  the  sheerly  heartfelt 
thing  that  Junius  Peabody  said  to  himself,  sniffling, 
was  this :  "  And  he  didn't  —  didn't  even  offer  me  a 
drink!" 

There  was  nothing  to  draw  him  any  farther  —no 


196       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT   ENDS 

help,  no  promise  of  success,  not  even  a  single  witness 
to  shame  with  a  grin  or  to  urge  with  an  expectant 
stare  —  nothing  outside  himself.  Fufuti  beach  lay 
stark  and  aching  white  before  him.  The  two  thieves 
had  long  since  lost  themselves  among  the  palms.  Down 
by  the  water's  edge  a  couple  of  Bendemeer's  boat  boys 
were  salvaging  odds  and  ends  lost  overboard  in  an  up 
set  in  yesterday's  heavy  surf.  They  did  not  waste  a 
thought  or  a  look  on  him.  He  was  many  degrees  less 
important  than  a  lot  of  other  rubbish  around  there. 
He  might  just  as  well,  he  might  much  better,  slump 
down  in  a  sodden  heap  amid  the  rest  of  the  jetsam. 
And  yet  he  did  not.  .  .  .  And  he  did  go  on.  For  some 
obscure,  irrational  human  reason,  he  did  go  on.  Per 
haps  because  of  the  tiny  coal  in  his  breast,  blown  red 
by  Bendemeer's  blasting  contempt.  Perhaps  because, 
after  all,  no  man  ever  quite  achieves  complete  resem 
blance  to  a  jellyfish. 

On  the  southern  tip  of  Fufuti  stands  Tenbow  Head, 
the  end  of  a  rough  little  jut  of  land  known  locally  as 
the  Rocks.  To  speak  by  the  book,  there  is  neither 
rock  nor  head,  but  the  abyss  turned  in  its  sleep  once, 
and  shouldered  half  a  mile  of  Fufuti's  shore  line  to  a 
height  of  thirty  feet  —  enough  for  a  mountain  in  this 
sea  of  humble  atolls.  Incidentally  it  smashed  the 
elevated  reefs  like  chalk  in  a  mortar.  Tenbow  is  a 
wreck  of  shattered  coral  terraces,  clad  in  the  eager 
growths  which  profit  by  its  trifling  rise  and  which  alone 
do  profit.  For  the  rest  it  remains  the  island  jungle, 
a  section  apart  and  untouched,  almost  impenetrable. 

Junius  Peabody  began  his  exploration  of  this  cheer 
ful  region  by  falling  on  his  face  in  a  gully  and  bruising 
his  nose  very  grievously.  He  found  no  trail  to  guide 
him  up  the  slope.  It  was  pitted  like  slag,  deceitful  as 
old  honeycomb.  The  footing  crumbled ;  tempting  beds 
of  moss  and  fern  slipped  away  at  his  clutch ;  twisting 


JETSAM  197 

lianas  caught  his  ankles  and  sent  him  asprawl.  The 
very  ground  seemed  armed  against  him  with  a  ma 
lignant  life  of  its  own.  He  had  to  creep  among  jagged 
teeth  that  sliced  his  flimsy  garments  and  his  putty- 
soft  flesh.  And  when  a  loosened  mass  slid  gently  over 
at  a  touch  and  caught  and  crushed  an  arm  he  scarcely 
wondered  whether  any  personal  power  had  directed 
It  was  all  the  same. 

For  a  long  time  he  lay  looking  at  his  pulped  fingers 
and  the  driven  drops  of  blood  from  the  quick  of  his 
nails,  sensing  the  exquisite  pain  almost  as  a  luxury, 
hugging  it  to  him.  But  at  length  he  stirred  and  began 
to  wriggle  forward  again. 

"  If  I'm  going  to  die  anyway,"  said  Junius  Peabody, 
"  I'm  going  to  die  doing  this."  Which  was  an  extra 
ordinary  remark  on  all  accounts.  .  .  . 

And  so  by  dint  of  following  something  and  still  fol 
lowing  with  unlimited  purpose  over  a  limited  terrain, 
he  ran  it  down  in  the  end  and  came  to  the  hiding  place 
he  sought. 

A  rooted  instinct  of  the  potentially  criminal,  which 
prompts  them  to  be  ready  to  flee  though  no  man  pur- 
sueth,  had  moved  the  beachcombers  of  Fufuti  long 
since  to  prepare  their  snug  retreat  in  the  heart  of  the 
Rocks.  On  the  inward  shore  of  the  promontory  they 
had  found  a  level  bit  of  shelf  screened  by  lush  vegeta 
tion,  with  the  green-stained  cliff  for  wall  and  the  sap 
phire  waters  of  the  lagoon  below  for  forecourt.  Hither 
they  repaired  in  the  intervals  of  lesser  lawbreaking  and 
free  entertainment,  always  secure  of  hearth  and  shelter 
where  the  broad  pandanus  spread  its  shingles.  And 
hither,  straight  as  merry  men  to  their  shaw,  they  had 
brought  the  great  treasure  of  the  morning. 

A  truly  homelike  scene  was  that  on  which  Junius 
Peabody  peered  from  ambush  above.  .  .  . 

From  the  convenient  branch  of  a  tree  the  Sydney 


198       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

Duck  had  suspended  by  its  middle  a  single  stout  stick. 
At  one  end  of  the  stick  he  had  slung  the  stolen  lump 
in  a  fiber  net.  At  the  other  he  had  attached  a  bat 
tered  tin  can  of  the  kind  that  the  beneficent  enterprise 
of  an  American  oil  company  had  spread  to  most  of  the 
dark  parts  of  the  earth.  On  this  balance  of  an  ancient 
and  primitive  design  he  was  engaged  in  weighing  his 
ill-gotten  gains,  squatting  to  the  task. 

"A  gallon  of  water  weighs  a  good  eight  pound," 
he  declared.  "  I  figger  five  quarts  an'  a  'arf.  And 
five  is  ten  and  the  'arf  is  one  — " 

Willems  stood  beside  him  in  an  attitude  of  stolid 
skepticism.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  breed  of  this 
big  derelict.  He  had  managed  to  assert  it  on  a  Pacific 
isle  by  fashioning  himself  somehow  a  pipe  with  a  clay 
bowl  and  a  long  stem  of  the  true  drooping  line.  He 
looked  quite  domestic  and  almost  paternal  as  he 
shuffled  his  broad  feet  and  towered  over  the  little  larri 
kin.  But  the  fists  he  carried  in  the  pockets  of  his 
dungarees  bulged  like  coconuts,  and  his  hairy  arms 
were  looped  brown  cables.  A  tough  man  for  an  argu 
ment  was  Mynheer  Willems. 

"  Yaw,"  he  was  saying.  "  But  how  you  know  you 
got  five  quarts  and  a  half?" 

"  W'y,  any  fool  could  guess  near  enough ! "  cried 
Sydney,  with  the  superflous  violence  that  was  his 
caste  mark.  "And  you  —  y'  big  Dutchman — 'in't 
you  swilled  enough  beer  in  your  time  to  judge?  Be 
sides,  the  bally  can  'olds  three  gallon  —  bound  to. 
There's  one  sure  measure.  ...  I  say  we  got,  anyw'y, 
eleven  pounds  of  this  stuff,  and  I  'appen  to  know  that 
Bendemeer's  fair  crazy  after  it.  He'll  pay  big.  We 
ought  to  'ave  two  thousands  dollars  Chile  to  split.  .  .  . 
Two  thousands  silver  dibs !  " 

It  was  a  cue  to  friendly  feeling,  that  luscious  phrase. 
The  two  men  beamed  upon  it  as  Sydney  dumped  the 


JETSAM  199 

balance  and  swung  the  fiber  net.  But  it  was  also  a  cue 
of  another  kind,  for  it  brought  Junius  Peabody  on 
stage.  He  arrived  by  the  simple  process  of  sliding  on 
a  bundle  over  the  brow  of  the  cliff. 

"  That's  mine,"  he  announced. 

The  beachcombers  stayed  stricken,  which  was  par 
donable.  Surely  there  never  showed  a  less  heroic  fig 
ure  on  a  stranger  defiance  than  that  of  Mr.  Peabody, 
torn,  bedraggled,  and  besmeared.  There  was  nothing 
muscular  or  threatening  about  him.  He  took  no  pose. 
He  offered  no  weapon.  He  came  on  at  them  limping, 
with  quivering  lip  and  empty  hands,  even  with  open 
hands.  And  yet  the  incredible  fact  remained  that  he 
did  come  on  at  them  and  continued  to  come. 

"  It's  mine,"  repeated  Junius.  "  All  mine,  and  I'm 
going  to  have  it  —  all !  " 

Amazement  held  them  motionless  for  as  long  as  it 
took  him  to  cross  the  ledge  —  pleased  amazement,  as 
they  knew  him  better.  There  are  few  things  more  con 
genial  to  certain  gentlemen  than  a  chance  to  maul  an 
easy  victim.  And  here  was  the  easiest  victim  that 
either  of  these  gentlemen  had  seen  in  many  a  day.  He 
was  no  match  for  them,  could  be  no  possible  match. 
Since  he  would  have  it  so,  they  accepted  joyously, 
closed  in  upon  him  from  either  side  and  started  to 
drag  him  down  as  a  preliminary  to  trampling  the  lights 
out  of  him.  .  .  . 

But  they  counted  without  the  absolute  simplicity  of 
a  man  who  has  found  an  objective  for  the  first  time  in 
his  life  and  has  set  himself  to  reach  it,  regardless.  Mr. 
Peabody  did  not  pause  to  fight  or  to  wrestle.  He 
let  them  get  a  good  grip  on  him  and  then  took  the 
unexpected  way  by  keeping  right  on  —  and,  pinioning 
their  arms,  merely  walking  them  over  the  edge  into 
space. 

For  an  instant  the  three  seemed  to  hang  suspended, 


200       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

interlocked  amid  smashing  vines  and  taut  creepers,  and 
then  toppled  toward  the  lagoon. 

Even  before  they  struck,  Sydney's  despairing  yell 
rang  out.  Their  plunge  drowned  it  and  gave  way  to 
the  cries  of  startled  sea  birds,  knifing  the  air  in  flung 
white  crescents  and  circling  about  the  troubled  spot 
that  boiled  like  blue  champagne.  But  when  he  came 
up  again  the  unfortunate  larrikin  loosed  shriek  after 
bubbling  shriek  and  floundered  madly  for  shore,  all 
else  forgotten  in  his  dominant  terror. 

Willems  was  made  of  sterner  metal.  He  grappled 
Peabody  as  they  rose  and  sought  to  use  his  long  arms, 
reaching  for  the  throat.  He  learned  better  presently, 
however,  and  he  learned,  too,  how  much  chance  he  had 
against  a  man  who  had  once  won  a  fancy  diving  title 
at  Travers  Island.  Junius  took  him  down  by  the  feet 
and  held  him  down  until  there  was  no  spring  and  no 
temper  left  to  him,  only  a  large  and  limp  and  very 
badly  frightened  Hollander  who  wanted  to  get  out  of 
the  wet.  He  was  quite  willing  to  paddle  after  the  Syd 
ney  Duck.  Meanwhile  Junius  gathered  up  an  object 
in  a  fiber  net  that  was  floating  near  by  and  swam  on  to 
follow  his  purpose.  .  .  . 

The  man  Bendemeer  was  standing  behind  his  little 
zinc  bar  when  a  shadow  sifted  in  through  the  doorway, 
and,  looking  up,  he  took  a  backward  step  that  nearly 
cost  him  his  stock  of  glassware.  The  man  Bendemeer 
was  not  used  to  stepping  back  from  anything,  but  the 
red  and  dripping  ruin  that  confronted  him  was  beyond 
usage  of  any  kind.  Junius  Peabody  looked  as  if  he 
had  been  run  through  a  mangle.  His  dress  was  frag 
mentary.  Most  of  the  skin  had  been  flayed  from  the 
more  prominent  curves  of  his  anatomy.  His  left  arm 
hung  useless.  He  crawled  in  and  propped  himself  to 
keep  from  falling,  and  called  for  brandy  in  a  voice 


JETSAM  201 

scarcely  recognizable.  "  Peabody  —  is  it?  "  demanded 
Bendemeer,  incredulous. 

"Will  you  keep  a  customer  waiting?"  rasped  Ju- 
nius.  "  You  needn't  stare."  He  laughed  weakly. 
"  You  can't  order  me  off  now,  Bendemeer.  I'm  a  pay 
ing  customer  again." 

"As  how?" 

Junius  lifted  a  fist  and  dropped  the  sopping  net  on 
the  bar.  "  Ambergris  —  eleven  pounds  of  it.  My 
property." 

Bendemeer  inspected  the  brownish  lump,  and  as  he 
understood,  his  thin  lips  pleated  and  his  glance  quick 
ened.  "  Oh,  ho !  "  he  said.  "  Was  it  this  they  robbed 
you  of?" 

Peabody  nodded. 

"  You  got  it  back  from  them  —  yourself  ?  " 

"  There's  the  stuff." 

"  So  I  see.  But  I'm  asking  —  did  you  take  it  away 
from  those  two  cutthroats  alone,  without  any  help  ?  " 

"  I  did.  And  now  I've  come  to  talk  business.  It's  a 
good  proposition,  Bendemeer." 

The  tall,  grim  white  man  studied  him  with  a  narrow 
regard  glinting  like  a  probe  and  equally  cool,  detached, 
and  impersonal.  He  had  the  air  of  a  surgeon  who 
approaches  a  clinical  experiment.  "  I'm  inclined  to 
think  it  may  be,"  he  decided.  "  Yes  —  a  sporting 
risk;  though  I'm  certain  enough  of  the  result,  Pea- 
body,  mind  that.  I  believe  I  might  make  a  bit  of  a 
gamble  with  myself,  just  to  see  that  I'm  right.  Come 
now  —  what  do  you  want  ?  " 

"  A  thousand  silver,"  said  Junius. 

"  I  haven't  so  much  about  me.  Suppose  we  say  a 
standing  credit  for  a  thousand  drinks  instead." 

Junius  stiffened  against  the  bar. 

"It  amounts  to  the  same  thing,  doesn't  it?"  con 
tinued  Bendemeer:  "Why  should  you  trouble  about 


202       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

dollars  —  mere  tokens?  You  can't  get  away  from 
Fufuti.  The  Jane  out  there,  she's  due  to  sail  this 
morning  on  a  round  of  my  plantations.  She's  the  only 
ship  clearing  for  a  month  at  least.  .  .  .  By  the  time 
you'd  drunk  yourself  to  death  I'd  simply  have  the 
money  back  again." 

Peabody  stared,  and  a  streak  of  crimson  leaped  into 
his  cheek  as  if  a  whiplash  had  been  laid  across  it. 

"Damn  you  — !"  he  cried  shakily.  "Give  me  that 
brandy  —  I'll  pay  for  it.  Here's  the  stuff.  It's  mine. 
I  went  after  it  and  I  got  it.  I  earned  it  myself,  and 
fairly!" 

"To  what  end?"  Bendemeer  cut  in.  "So  you  can 
pickle  yourself  before  burial?" 

Junius  Peabody  writhed.  "  What's  it  to  you  how 
I  spend  it  afterward?  I'm  a  free  agent.  I  can  do  as 
I  like." 

"  That,"  said  Bendemeer  with  quiet  emphasis,  "  is  a 
lie." 

Holding  his  quivering  subject,  impaled  on  his  glance 
as  it  seemed,  he  reached  a  black,  square  bottle.  He 
shoved  a  glass  in  front  of  Junius  Peabody  and  poured 
a  generous  measure.  With  one  hand  he  kept  the  glass 
covered  and  with  the  other  pointed  out  through  the 
doorway. 

"  I'll  say  you  lie,  and  I'll  demonstrate : 

"You  see  my  schooner  out  there?  That's  her  boat 
on  the  beach.  She  leaves  in  half  an  hour ;  her  captain's 
come  now  for  final  orders.  She  goes  first  from  here  to 
an  island  of  mine  a  hundred  miles  away.  I  planted  it 
with  coconuts  five  years  ago,  and  left  a  population  of 
maybe  a  dozen  Kanakas  to  tend  them  —  it's  going  to 
be  worth  money  some  day.  Nukava,  they  call  it,  and 
it's  the  edge  of  the  earth,  the  farthest  corner,  and  the 
loneliest  and  the  driest.  There's  not  a  drop  of  anything 


JETSAM  203 

on  the  place  except  water,  scant  and  brackish  at  that. 
But  a  white  man  could  live  there,  if  he  were  fit  to  live 
at  all,  and  wanted  to  badly  enough. 

"  Now  I'll  make  you  an  offer.  I'll  buy  this  lump  of 
stuff  from  you,  and  I'll  buy  it  either  of  two  ways.  A 
half  interest  in  Nukava  and  you  go  there  at  once  to 
take  charge  as  agent.  ...  Or  else  —  here's  your 
brandy  and  I'll  keep  you  perpetually  drunk  as  long  as 
you  last." 

Junius  swayed  on  his  feet.  "Agent?"  he  stam 
mered.  "  To  go  away  — ?  " 

"  Now.  And  once  there  you  can't  escape.  You're 
stuck  for  a  year  on  a  coral  gridiron,  Peabody,  to  sit 
and  fry." 

"What  for?    You  —  !    What  for?" 

Bendemeer  shrugged. 

"  Because  it  amuses  me.  Because  I  please.  Be 
cause  —  I  know  what  you'll  do.  I've  been  watching 
men  of  your  sort  all  my  life,  and  I  know  what  they're 
worth  —  drift  on  the  beaches,  scraps,  trash,  jetsam. 
Regeneration,  eh  ?  Rot  and  drivel !  You  can't  save 
yourself  any  more  than  you  could  lift  yourself  by 
your  own  boot  straps.  It  suits  me  to  prove  it  to  you 
this  way." 

He  lifted  his  hand  away  from  the  glass.  Peabody's 
stare  dropped  from  that  cryptic  regard  to  the  waiting 
brandy  before  him,  the  red  liquor,  odorous  and  mad 
dening.  Peabody's  lips  moved,  and  he  wet  them  with 
the  tip  of  his  tongue  and  gripped  the  bar  with  strain 
ing  white  fingers. 

"  You're  wrong,"  he  breathed.  "  You  lose,  Ben 
demeer.  I  can  do  it  —  I've  just  learned  I  can  do  it. 
And,  by  God,"  he  added,  prayerfully,  "  I  will." 

Bendemeer  took  up  the  netted  lump. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  offhand.  "Just  a  moment, 
while  I  chuck  this  stuff  in  the  storeroom." 

He  turned  and  tramped  out  through  the  rear  with- 


204       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

out  a  glance  behind  him  —  and  left  Junius  Peabody 
there  alone  before  the  bar. 

He  was  gone  perhaps  five  minutes,  quite  as  much  as 
that,  an  ample  space  of  time.  When  he  came  back 
there  was  no  glass  in  sight.  It  had  vanished,  and  the 
room  reeked  with  the  fumes  of  a  very  flagrant  distilla 
tion  of  French  brandy  He  looked  his  customer  up 
and  down  and  his  lids  lowered  a  trifle. 

"  Well,  how  did  you  like  the  flavor?  " 

The  face  of  Junius  Peabody  was  like  a  death's-head, 
but  the  eyes  in  his  sockets  blazed  with  a  light  all  their 
own,  and,  standing  there  erect,  standing  square  on  his 
two  legs  with  his  feet  braced  apart,  he  swore  —  some 
what  inexpertly,  it  was  true,  but  still  quite  heartily; 
good,  crisp  profanity  such  as  one  able  man  may  use 
with  another  —  until  Bendemeer's  puzzled  gaze  caught 
the  sparkle  of  broken  glass  lying  in  a  great  splash  of 
liquid  in  a  corner  of  the  floor.  "  I'm  going  to 
Nukava !  "  cried  Junius  Peabody.  "  And  you  see  — 
you  see  there  are  some  scraps  thrown  up  on  the  beach 
that  are  worth  something  after  all,  and  be  damned  to 
you,  Bendemeer!  " 

Bendemeer's  grip  shot  out  as  if  against  his  volition 
and  after  an  instant's  hesitation  Peabody  took  it.  He 
did  not  yet  know  all  the  trader  had  done  for  him,  per 
haps  would  never  know,  but  on  the  inscrutable  front  of 
that  remarkable  man  was  a  faint  glow  curiously  unlike 
a  loser's  chagrin. 

"  So  it  seems,"  acknowledged  Bendemeer.  "  So  it 
seems  " —  and  smiled  a  little,  rather  oddly.  .  .  . 

Bendemeer  was  still  smiling  that  way,  all  by  himself, 
an  hour  or  so  later  when  he  had  watched  the  Likely 
Jane  lay  her  course  for  Nukava  with  the  new  agent  on 
board  and  had  gone  down  into  his  storeroom  to  put  the 
place  to  rights.  There  was  a  clutter  of  odds  and  ends 
of  cargo  that  had  been  spilled  from  an  upset  surfboat 


JETSAM  205 

the  day  before.  Most  of  it  had  been  salvaged  by  his 
Kanaka  boys  along  shore,  but  a  certain  broken  tub 
containing  tallow  had  lost  part  of  its  contents.  How 
ever,  he  was  able  now  to  restore  a  large  lump  weighing 
perhaps  eleven  pounds  or  so,  which  made  the  tally 
nearly  good. 


THE  ADVERSARY 

IN  the  good  old  days  of  Thursday  Island  there 
passed  as  waif  currency  a  certain  local  jest. 
When  some  pride  of  the  pearling  fleet  was 
moved  to  approve  himself,  his  company,  and  the  per 
vading  wickedness  in  general  he  was  wont  to  state  — 
more  or  less  titubant  on  his  pins  the  while  —  that  the 
only  honest  men  in  that  merry  little  hell  had  come  by 
land.  It  was  a  useful  and  a  harmless  jest,  salted  with 
the  essential  fact  whereby  legends  are  preserved  and 
made  historic.  But  from  a  date  it  lost  its  savor.  .  .  . 

At  the  Portugee's  one  night  —  Saturday,  be  sure, 
for  it  was  always  Saturday  on  Thursday  with  the 
pearlers  —  a  gentleman  from  Wooloomooloo  who  had 
just  adorned  the  traditional  witticism  with  profane 
fancy  found  himself  confronted  by  a  quiet  stranger 
who  laid  down  his  coat  and  a  new  law. 

"  I  don't  mind  so  much  what  you  call  yourselves 
to  yourselves,"  he  observed,  while  the  circle  shouted 
and  spread  about.  "  Nor  your  nice  new  magistrate, 
nor  your  missionaries,  nor  your  artillery  guard  on  the 
hill.  Maybe  you've  overlooked  the  modern  spread  of 
respectability  and  corrugated  roofings.  Or  maybe  you 
know  'em  better  than  I  do.  But  I've  come  to  tarry 
with  you  for  a  time,  my  friends.  And,  as  long  as  I'm 
in  your  midst,  any  chap  that  says  I'm  not  honest  — 
and  can't  prove  it  —  I'll  knock  seven  bells  out  of  him." 

Which  he  did,  seriatim. 

Now,  there  never  was  another  place  habitually  so 
incurious  as  Thursday  Island  in  its  social  dealings. 

206 


THE  ADVERSARY  207 

It  is  the  last  raw  outpost  toward  the  last  unknown 
continent  of  Papua,  and  those  who  resort  to  its  blis 
tering  grid  among  the  reefs  are  folks  that  have  largely 
reduced  their  human  complex  to  the  simple  thirst. 
Where  every  prospect  displeases  and  man  is  only  an 
exile  the  merest  regard  for  etiquette  will  warn  against 
prying  very  far  into  your  neighbor's  little  eccentrici 
ties  unless  you  are  prepared  to  push  the  inquiry  with 
a  knife. 

Also,  there  never  was  another  place  like  Thursday 
for  variations  on  a  color  theme.  That  season  the 
islanders  counted  twenty-two  races  among  the  two 
thousand  of  them,  including  half-castes;  and  most  of 
their  common  gossip  was  carried  on  in  a  lingo  of 
rather  less  than  two  hundred  words.  You  cannot  do 
much  abstract  speculating  in  beche  de  mer. 

Perhaps  these  points  would  somewhat  explain  the 
stranger's  success.  Nobody  questioned  his  account  of 
hailing  from  the  Low  Archipelago,  or  the  curiously 
yachtlike  snap  to  his  craft,  or  his  own  odd  employ 
ment  on  a  pearling  license.  Nobody  wondered  when 
he  paid  off  and  scattered  his  Kanaka  crew  —  possible 
links  with  his  past  —  and  shipped  a  new  lot  from  the 
motley  mob  on  the  jetty. 

And  a  motley  lot  he  picked!  His  cook  was  Chi 
nese  ;  his  head  diver  a  Manilaman :  the  delicate  lemon 
of  Macao  mingled  with  the  saddle  tints  of  the  Coro- 
mandel  Coast  about  his  decks,  and  for  mate  he  found 
a  stranded  West  African  negro  who  bore,  in  pathetic 
loyalty  to  some  ironic  crimp,  the  name  of  Buttermilk. 
Still,  such  a  mixture  was  ordinary  enough  at  Thurs 
day.  .  .  .  Ordinary  too  was  the  fact  —  which  again 
nobody  noticed  —  that  they  were  all  opium  users,  who 
do  not  talk,  rather  than  drunkards,  who  do. 

This  honest  man  had  brought  his  honesty  to  the 
proper  shop  for  face  value.  His  story  began  with 
that  startling  gesture  at  the  Portugee's.  It  con- 


208       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

tinued  in  the  epic  strain  of  a  halfpenny  serial.  The 
hero  himself  might  have  filled  a  whole  illustration; 
thewed  like  a  colossus,  crop  black  hair  in  a  point  over 
the  brow  of  a  student;  a  smooth,  long  jaw  always 
strangely  pallid,  and  gray  eyes,  inscrutable  and  age 
less.  With  his  jungle  step,  with  his  thin  ducks  molded 
to  the  coiling  muscles  underneath  by  the  press  of  the 
southerly  buster,  when  he  came  swinging  along  the 
front  the  crowd  parted  left  and  right  before  him. 
Most  crowds  must  have  done  so ;  probably  many  had. 
But  at  Thursday  he  was  almost  an  institution.  .  .  . 

"  Tm  ?  Cap'n  of  the  Fancy  Free,  that  flash  little 
lugger  out  beyond.  'Ardest  driver  and  str'itest 
Johnny  in  the  fleet."  Thus  the  inevitable  informing 
larrikin,  eager  to  cadge  a  drink  from  the  tourist  on 
shore  leave.  "  E'd  chyse  you  acrost  the  Pacific  to 
p'y  you  tuppence  'e  might  ha'  owed  you  —  that's  'is 
sort.  And  —  my  word !  — 'e's  got  a  jab  to  the  boko 
you  don't  want  to  get  p'id  at  no  price!  Wetherbee, 
they  call  'im.  '  Honest  Wetherbee  ' —  that's  'im." 

For  he  lived  to  the  title.  If  it  is  honest  to  abide 
by  every  hampering  regulation  that  makes  you  solid 
with  the  authorities;  to  split  prices  over  a  bit  of  in 
ferior  shell;  to  lose  two  weeks  with  your  outfit  in 
quarantine,  voluntarily  —  that  happened  when  the 
Opalton  brought  a  hot  cholera  scare  and  her  passenger 
list  camped  on  Friday  Island  —  to  share  your  stores 
with  starving  lighthouse  keepers;  to  drink  a  set  of 
hard  cases  blind  and  stiff  and  then,  departing  clear 
headed,  settle  the  whole  damage  yourself;  to  pay  all 
bills  square :  in  short,  if  it  be  the  part  of  honesty  to 
give  the  cash  and  take  the  credit  every  time,  Cap'n 
Wetherbee  played  it.  Amazingly  —  as  a  man  might 
play  an  arduous  game ! 

Within  six  months  Port  Kennedy  and  all  there 
about  would  have  sworn  by  him;  he  had  dined  with 
the  sub-collector  and  the  harbor  master  and  was  call- 


THE  ADVERSARY  209 

ing  various  pilots,  navigators,  and  odd  fish  of  Torres 
Strait  by  their  handier  names  —  especially  the  pilots. 
These  were  the  rewards  of  reputation,  and  they  de 
fined  Thursday's  acceptance  of  him  up  to  that  night 
in  the  wet  season  when  his  visit  ended.  .  .  . 

A  Saturday  again.  The  northwest  monsoon  had 
broken  with  torrential  downpour,  and  now  the  island 
reeked  in  a  steam  bath,  as  if  the  young  moon  had 
focused  a  sick,  intolerable  ray  upon  it.  A  high  wind 
stormed  the  sands  and  brought  no  relief.  The  quiver 
of  the  surf  beat  on  the  senses  like  heat  waves.  A  few 
thrashing  pawpaws  and  palm  tufts  threw  shadows  like 
tormented  sleepers  along  the  beach.  But  up  in  the 
town  Thursday  took  its  usual  "  tangle,"  shouted  and 
sang  and  drowned  its  fever  without  assuagement  in 
the  periodic  crisis  of  the  fortune  hunt.  A  Brisbane 
steamer  lay  ready  to  depart  with  the  morning  tide. 
Meanwhile  her  shore  goers,  "  seeing  a  bit  o'  life,"  did 
their  possible  to  keep  up  the  prevailing  temperature. 
Only  the  long  jetty  was  quiet.  Here  a  man  might 
stand  back  and  away  from  it  all  and  hear  the  single 
note  of  its  turmoil  and  peer  into  the  mist  of  its  lights 
like  a  contemplative  Lucifer  at  the  verge  of  some 
lesser  inferno. 

And  in  truth  there  stood  such  a  man  in  much  that 
manner.  He  had  come  down  soft-footed  from  the 
streets  and,  lingering  to  assure  himself  he  had  not 
been  followed,  stepped  out  upon  the  jetty  where  he 
stayed  motionless  and  attentive.  His  glance  roved 
from  point  to  point,  noting,  verifying.  First  the  out 
ward  spread  twinkle  of  the  deserted  lugger  fleet  at 
anchor ;  then  the  bulk  of  the  Brisbane  steamer  at  the  T 
head,  with  her  yellow  cargo  flares  that  showed  load 
ing  still  in  progress :  and  the  town,  all  unconscious  of 
him.  Something  sinister  seemed  to  detach  this  big, 
dim  figure  from  the  restlessness  of  the  night;  brood- 


210       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

ing  apart  there  so  coolly  alert  and  contained.  He  re 
garded  Thursday  for  a  while,  and  at  last,  alone  and 
with  himself  for  confidant,  he  made  a  gesture  as  if  to 
seal  its  folly  and  its  whole  destiny  with  final  contempt 
and  triumph. 

He  was  turning  away  with  a  swing  of  broad  shoul 
ders  when  another  figure  slipped  from  the  shadow  and 
moved  suddenly  to  confront  him. 

"  Ah  —  Captain  Wetherbee  ?  " 

Everywhere  and  always  up  and  down  the  earth,  and 
more  particularly  in  rather  unhealthful  corners  of  it, 
are  men  who  have  to  go  braced  for  that  questioning 
slur,  that  significant  little  drag  before  the  name.  It  is 
a  challenge  out  of  time  and  space,  and  at  sound  of  it 
the  big  fellow  up  tense  like  a  battler  in  a  ring. 

"  Halvers,"  stated  the  newcomer  without  preamble 
or  apology.  "  I'll  take  halvers,  if  you  please,  Captain 
Wetherbee." 

He  revealed  himself  as  a  long,  weedy  frame  in  limp 
linen.  Both  hands  were  jammed  into  his  side  pockets 
with  a  singular  effect  —  against  a  hypothetical  chill, 
one  would  have  thought.  Without  his  stoop  he  might 
have  been  as  tall  as  Wetherbee,  but  he  had  shrunken 
like  the  sleeves  tucked  above  his  bony  wrists.  He  had 
an  air  at  once  fearful  and  implacable  —  the  doubly 
dangerous  menace  of  a  timid  man  ready  to  strike. 

Wetherbee  was  aware  of  it,  though  incredulous. 

"You  spoke?"  he  inquired,  from  a  lengthened  jaw. 

"  I  said  —  halvers,"  affirmed  this  extraordinary  ap 
parition.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  peculiar  flavor 
in  his  husky  voice  —  no  mistaking,  either,  that  at  pres 
ent  its  owner  was  deadly  cold  sober.  "  Don't  move, 
captain.  I've  got  you  covered  from  here.  .  .  .  And 
this  time  I'm  not  afraid  to  shoot!" 

Wetherbee  continued  aware  of  it. 

"  Just  my  little  device  for  holding  your  attention," 
explained  the  newcomer,  between  a  cough  and  a 


THE  ADVERSARY  211 

snuffle,  the  remnant  of  polite  affectation.  "  I  thought  it 
out  very  carefully." 

"  Ho !    You  did  ?  "  queried  Wetherbee. 

"  You  used  to  be  such  a  damnably  abrupt  sort  of 
person  yourself." 

"Ho!    Did  I?" 

"  Even  then.  Even  then,  when  we  sat  under  the 
same  pulpit  —  such  time  as  you  found  it  socially  ex 
pedient  to  attend  —  it  was  a  matter  of  grave  doubt  to 
me  whether  you  took  any  real  benefit.  You  were 
always  a  poor  listener,  Mr.  —  ah  —  Wetherbee. 
Whereas  I  —  I  was  chosen  deacon  that  winter,  you 
may  remember." 

Wetherbee  stared  into  the  shaven,  haunted  face  thus 
preposterously  thrust  at  him  across  the  years.  Aside 
from  the  unimaginable  oddity  of  the  attack,  there  was 
cunning  and  unsettling  purpose  in  it,  but  he  yielded 
no  nerve  reaction,  no  start  or  outcry;  not  even  a 
denial.  And  by  this  —  had  he  been  wise  —  the  other 
might  have  taken  warning. 

"  By  Jove !  "  was  all  his  comment. 

"  We've  come  a  considerable  distance,"  suggested 
the  new  arrival. 

They  looked  in  curious  silence,  each  measuring  that 
span  from  the  edge  of  things.  Thursday  howled  on 
one  side  of  them  and  on  the  other  wind  and  the  sea, 
until  the  humor  of  it  won  Wetherbee  to  a  grim 
chuckle. 

"Well,  what  do  they  call  you  nowadays  —  dea 
con?" 

"  I'm  usually  known  as  Selden,  thanks." 

"Seldom?" 

"  I  shouldn't  insist :  any  more  than  you  yourself, 
captain." 

"And  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

"  I  dropped  in  from  Samarai,  meaning  to  catch  the 
Brisbane  steamer  yonder.  I've  been  diving  up  there 


212       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

all  season.    I'm  a  very  fair  diver,  really;  only  my  luck 
is  generally  so  poor." 

To  any  passer-by  he  must  have  seemed  the  usual 
loafer,  with  a  string  of  woes  on  tap.  But  Wetherbee, 
one  eye  to  the  bulging  pockets,  appeared  in  no  way 
bored. 

"  Strolling  along  the  front,  I  chanced  to  recognize 
you.  That  was  luck,  if  you  like.  I've  thought  so. 
Especially  since  making  inquiries.  I've  made  rather 
exhaustive  inquiries.  In  fact,  I  believe  I  have  your 
rating  fairly  up  to  date."  He  coughed  again.  "  Cap 
tain  Wetherbee,  do  you  remember  when  we  last 
met?" 

"  No,"  said  Wetherbee  shortly. 

Thereupon  Mr.  Selden  recalled  that  meeting,  and 
others,  and  his  voice  trailed  like  a  snake  in  the  dust, 
looping  cryptic  patterns.  It  was  one  of  those  counts 
of  grievance  and  disaster  such  as  almost  any  broken 
fugitive  among  far  places  has  to  tell.  Thursday  can 
offer  them  by  the  yard,  and  dear  at  the  price  of  a 
drink.  He  spoke  of  shares  and  deals  and  swindling 
betrayal;  of  hope  and  fortune  lost,  and  the  false  lead 
that  puts  a  man  on  the  chute  and  sets  him  off  for 
a  blackleg  and  a  wanderer.  All  in  the  clipped  jargon 
of  the  markets,  a  common  tale,  but  with  this  difference 
in  the  telling  —  it  came  away  briefly,  with  the  slow- 
biting  venom  that  such  a  fugitive  would  be  apt  to 
reserve  for  only  one  out  of  all  possible  living  listeners 
in  the  world.  From  over  the  hidden  weapon  he  drove 
home  his  point;  while  Wetherbee  stood  there  rooted 
on  the  jetty,  like  the  Wedding  Guest. 

"...  So  you  knifed  the  lot  of  us  in  the  dark  — 
everyone  that  trusted  you  —  and  bolted.  That  was 
your  way.  You  sent  me  ashore  from  that  last  yacht 
ing  party  all  primed  to  go  my  last  penny  on  a  dead 


THE  ADVERSARY  213 

bird.  I  was  flattered.  I  used  to  credit  your  honesty 
more  or  less  myself  —  then." 

"  And  now  ?  "  suggested  Wetherbee. 

Mr.  Selden,  late  deacon,  drew  a  husky  breath. 

"  Why,  now  —  I've  caught  up  with  you.  I'm  the 
flaw  in  the  title,  at  50  per  cent.  I'm  judgment  out 
of  the  past!  Verily,  no  man  shall  escape  it:  do  you 
mark?  No  man  comes  so  far  or  hides  his  track  so 
cleverly,  even  at  Thursday  Island.  I've  got  your  rec 
ord  —  as  you've  got  mine,  of  course ;  but  yours  is 
rather  worse,  with  a  warrant  pending  —  of  which,  by 
the  way,  I  know  the  very  date.  .  .  .  And,  besides,  I've 
nothing  at  all  to  lose.  I'm  only  a  broken  diver.  No 
body  ever  called  me  '  Honest '  Selden  or  '  Honest ' 
anything  else ! " 

His  wrists  stiffened  as  Wetherbee  took  a  step. 

"  You  mean  to  blow,  you  wasp  ?  " 

"  You  won't  make  me.  Blow !  That's  no  good  to 
me:  I  mean  to  get  level.  Halvers,  I  said  —  captain. 
...  I'm  in !  " 

"On  what?" 

"  On  your  new  speculation,  of  course."  He  came 
very  close  to  capering.  "  Your  latest  deviltry.  Don't 
I  know  your  little  methods?  D'you  think  I  couldn't 
smell  it  out?  Public  character,  no  suspicion,  traces 
all  removed  —  alibi  all  complete  —  and  a  clear  road 
to  the  back  door. 

"  You  sneaked  your  crew  out  of  town  to-night. 
Your  lugger's  ready  to  slip  cable.  You've  been  hob 
nobbing  all  evening  with  the  pilot  you  camped  along 
with  on  Friday  Island  for  two  weeks  —  that  had  the 
Opalton  —  by  George,  I  believe  it  was  you  made  him 
a  sot  on  the  sly!  I  wouldn't  put  it  past  you.  You 
used  to  gammon  us  the  same  way  on  your  cursed 
week-end  sprees.  Don't  I  know?  Haven't  I  reason  to 
know? 

"  But  you  needn't  have  pumped  him  so  close.     I 


214       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

could  have  told  you  days  ago  what  she  takes  aboard 
of  her  this  trip."  .  .  . 

"The  hell  you  could!" 

"  Pearls :  the  season's  sweep.  Twenty  thousand 
pounds'  worth  of  pearls!"  recited  Selden.  "Eh? 
Twenty  thousand  —  and  I've  got  you  by  the  short 
hairs ! "  His  eyes  shone  in  the  moonlight  with  a 
fanatic  gleam.  "  Thus  saith  the  Lord  God;  An  adversary 
there  shall  be,  and  he  shall  bring  down  thy  strength  from 
thee!" 

Then  Captain  Wetherbee  relaxed  and  laughed  in 
his  chest  to  match  the  note  of  the  reef.  "  Blackmail 
and  piracy!  My  colonial  oath,  deacon,  I  never  saw 
your  beat.  So  you've  dropped  to  me!  I  go  bail  you 
asked  a  blessing  on  the  enterprise ! " 

Selden  did  not  deny  it. 

"  Let's  hear  the  rest,"  urged  Wetherbee,  while  his 
chuckle  echoed  the  lap  of  waves  among  dark  pilings. 
"What's  your  notion?  Did  you  picture  me  sticking 
up  the  consignors  as  they  walk  aboard  the  plank  and 
passing  you  your  share  in  a  little  hand  bag?" 

The  deacon  shuffled  nervously. 

"  It  can't  matter  how  you  do  it." 

Can't  it?  Now,  don't  you  go  dissappointing  me." 
He  stole  a  step  nearer.  "  Those  pearls  have  been 
locked  in  the  strong  room  of  the  Brisbane  steamer 
since  early  afternoon.  Now  then.  How  the  devil  am 
I  —  are  we  —  to  nab  'em  ?  Come !  You're  the  little 
personal  Providence  in  this  affair,  at  50  per  cent. 
Don't  tell  me  with  all  your  knowing  you  didn't  know 
that!" 

"  It's  your  deliver,"  said  Selden,  "  anyhow." 

"  Well,  let's  take  counsel  —  I'm  agreeable  to  have 
an  adversary.  Goodness  knows  I  haven't  had  much 
amusement  so  far  —  the  thing's  been  so  rotten  easy. 
By  way  of  a  text  —  Brother  Seldom  —  and  a  point 


THE  ADVERSARY  215 

of  departure:  did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Volga?  Ever 
hear  of  the  Quetta  or  the  Mecca;  dozen  of  other  ships 
lost  one  time  or  another  between  here  and  Cape 
Flattery? 

"  Pity  about  them  too  —  they  fell  a  trifle  off  the 
track.  Just  a  few  fathom  off  the  track  among  these 
millions  of  reefs  that  will  rip  the  heart  out  of  any 
thing  afloat.  Suppose  for  the  sake  of  argument  our 
Brisbane  steamer  which  we're  both  so  interested  in  — 
out  there  at  the  dock  head  —  suppose  she  should  hap 
pen  to  go  wandering  this  trip  —  say,  somewhere 
around  Tribulation  Passage,  two  hours  out.  Suppose 
she  should  —  as  a  slant  of  luck."  His  voice  lowered 
with  obscurely  evil  suggestion.  "  Would  it  occur  to 
you  we  might  have  any  chance  of  salvage  on  those 
pearls?  " 

"I  —  I  don't  understand,"  stammered  Selden. 
"  The  passage  is  lighted.  There's  a  light  on  Tribula 
tion  Shoal." 

"  So  there  is.  What  a  helpful  chap  you  are  to  work 
with !  You  keep  it  to  port  as  you  turn  the  Blackbird 
Reef.  It's  a  fourth  order  fixed  dioptric  —  unattended. 
The  keeper  lives  on  Horn  Island.  But  suppose,  now 
—  suppose  that  light  were  moved,  either  way?" 

"  Move  the  light !  " 

"  In  effect,  merely ;  in  effect.  A  man  might  very 
readily  land  there  from  the  lee  and  blanket  that  light 
to  the  westward.  And  if  that  same  man,  with  some 
thing  like  a  discarded  lightship  lantern  aboard  his  lug 
ger,  should  then  anchor  half  a  mile  away,  and  show  his 
light  at  the  masthead  —  hey?  A  fifty-foot  elevation  is 
visible  at  nearly  fourteen  miles  twenty-five  feet  up. 
But  a  twenty-five-foot  elevation  gives  a  total  of  only 
eleven  point  four.  .  .  .  You  begin  to  see  the  possibili 
ties  for  error  —  particularly  if  the  pilot  of  the  oncom 
ing  steamer  should  happen  to  be,  as  you  wisely  sug 
gest,  a  bit  of  a  sot  with  a  hazy  eye  — " 


216       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

"  My  God !  You're  going  to  wreck  her ! " 

"  Hush !  "  said  Wetherbee  very  loudly. 

Selden  whirled  around  to  find  a  black-skinned  na 
tive  standing  impassive  behind  him.  At  the  same  in 
stant  a  steel  grip  locked  his  wrists.  "  Not  that ! "  he 
gasped,  struggling.  "  My  God,  man,  you  wouldn't ! 
You  daren't ! " 

"No?  And  yet  you  said  you  knew  my  little  meth 
ods."  "  Honest "  Wetherbee  shifted  a  thumb  to  his 
throat  and  smiled  into  his  face.  "  I've  a  mind  to  show 
you,  deacon  —  shall  I  —  how  far  I  have  come  and  how 
cleverly  I  have  covered  my  tracks?  .  .  .  Hya,  you 
fella  boy  —  that  fella  boat  all  ready?  Then  bear  a 
hand  her  one  time.  We've  got  a  passenger." 

Now,  it  is  a  fact  that  no  one  knows  or  is  ever  likely 
to  know  the  actual  explanation  for  the  wreck  of  the 
Brisbane  steamer,  which  left  Thursday  Island  that 
night  and  came  to  grief  some  two  hours  later  on 
Tribulation  Shoals.  Other  craft  have  gone  the  same 
way  from  natural  causes,  and  Thursday  has  kept  no 
suspect  tradition  of  them.  The  only  man  who  might 
have  denied  the  yarn  as  afterward  colored  in  local 
legend  —  and  incidentally  a  libel  on  his  own  memory 
—  was  the  pilot  who  had  her  in  charge.  And  he  never 
came  back,  drunk  or  sober.  But  the  records  declare 
that  about  four  o'clock  of  a  fair  enough  morning,  wind 
sea  then  running  high,  the  2,000-ton  Fernshawe  went 
clear  off  her  course  among  the  graveyards  where  a 
coral  ledge  stripped  her  plates  as  neatly  as  a  butcher's 
knife  lays  open  a  carcass.  She  sank  inside  of  five 
minutes,  and  her  survivors  were  hurried. 

Neither  has  any  one  ever  told  the  true  adventures  of 
the  Fancy  Free,  the  flash  little  lugger  that  happened 
somehow  to  be  missing  from  week-end  rendezvous  at 
the  same  hour.  Her  crew  were  mostly  inarticulate, 
and  those  who  might  have  talked  of  strange  comings 


THE  ADVERSARY  217 

and  goings  were  "  black  fella  boy  know  nothing." 
Her  passenger  spent  the  night  praying  in  the  bilge; 
and  as  for  her  commander,  he  left  no  report.  But  it 
is  equally  certain  that  when  the  next  dawn  spread  the 
irridescence  of  a  pigeon's  breast  over  those  empty 
waters  it  struck  out  the  hull  and  spars  of  Captain 
Wetherbee's  vessel,  anchored  fair  between  the  tips  of 
two  sunken  masts. 

Captain  Wetherbee  himself  straddled  the  deck  in 
diving  rig,  and  while  a  native  helper  held  ready  his 
great  gleaming  copper  helm  he  mocked  a  limp,  be 
draggled,  white-faced  creature  that  clung  by  the  rail. 

"  You'll  note  for  yourself,  Brother  Seldom,"  he  was 
saying.  "  Not  a  trace  of  evidence.  We've  not  been 
spied.  The  lantern  is  sunk.  These  poor  cattle  haven't 
a  glimmer.  Here  are  we,  and  there  are  the  pearls, 
twenty  thousand  pounds'  worth  —  just  overside. 
Within  three  hours  I'll  be  off  on  the  pearling  banks 
about  my  business,  and  I  never  heard  of  any  lost 
steamer.  Next  week,  or  any  time  I  choose,  I'll  be  walk 
ing  the  streets  of  Thursday  to  hear  the  news.  And 
who  so  surprised  as  Captain  Wetherbee,  that  hard 
working  man  ?  '  Honest '  Wetherbee,  with  a  fortune 
in  his  belt  to  dispose  at  leisure ! "  .  .  . 

His  pallid  face  took  a  diabolic  glow  in  the  first  sun. 

"  Except  yourself,  of  course,"  he  added.  "  You're 
evidence.  King's  evidence.  I'm  not  forgetting  you. 
I'll  even  give  you  your  chance.  Are  you  coming,  old 
50  per  cent?  Yes —  down  there!  With  me!  Hell  — 
what  kind  of  an  adversary  do  you  call  yourself?  Come 
on  and  share.  Now's  your  time  to  get  level  and 
change  your  luck  once  for  all.  Fight  it  out  with  me 
—  what?  No?  .  .  .  Damn  it,  deacon,  I  thought  you 
were  going  to  be  amusing.  .  .  .  I'll  knock  your  silly 
head  in  when  I  come  back." 

He  climbed  to  the  ladder,  but  a  final  odd  fancy  oc- 


218       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

cured  to  him,  a  parting  twist  to  the  other's  torment; 
and  he  summoned  the  big  negro  mate. 

"You  see  that  fella  white  man?  Mebbe  he  wants 
to  go  below  —  good;  you  give  him  that  other  suit. 
Mebbe  he  raises  hell  or  touches  the  pump ;  you  knock 
seven  bells  out  of  him.  Otherwise  no  order.  You 
savee  ?  " 

Buttermilk  saveed  with  a  vacant  grin. 

There  hung  for  a  moment  after  the  helmet  had  been 
locked  a  singled-eyed  and  monstrous  red  ghoul  of  the 
sea  that  presently  lowered  itself  and  sank.  .  .  . 

Wetherbee  landed  easily  on  the  boat  deck  of  the 
Fernshawe  well  away  aft.  It  was  hardly  bright 
enough  as  yet  above  him,  and  he  had  to  feel  his  path 
a  foot  at  a  time  in  somber  green  twilight.  Quick 
fishes  steered  to  and  fro  about  him,  silent  and  curious 
witnesses  of  this  invasion.  He  gave  no  heed,  he  had 
no  care  of  sharks  or  diamond  fish  or  any  possible 
danger,  too  intent  on  his  errand,  to  elate  and  confi 
dent. 

Balancing  on  his  hands  like  an  acrobat,  he  crawled 
over  the  edge,  down  to  the  main  deck,  and  began  to 
explore  forward. 

In  one  hand  he  held  a  short  and  heavy  steel  crow 
bar,  with  a  fine  ground  tip.  In  the  other  he  drew  the 
coils  of  his  life  line  and  air  tube.  They  lengthened 
after  him  as  he  entered  by  the  main  companion,  passed 
the  door  to  the  saloon,  and  up  a  long,  dark  passage  to 
a  thwartship  corridor.  There,  as  he  had  known  from 
a  vague  and  general  familiarity  with  its  plan,  was  the 
door  to  the  steamer's  strong  room.  The  lock  proved 
a  trifle  in  the  nip  of  his  powerful  jimmy.  .  .  . 

When  he  groped  out  into  the  passage,  twenty  min 
utes  later,  he  carried  slung  to  his  belt,  a  sagging 
canvas  bag. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  ship  must  have  moved  in 


THE  ADVERSARY  219 

the  interval  of  his  search.  Some  shifting  of  cargo  or 
fracture  of  the  coral  supports  had  tilted  her  sharply 
by  the  stern.  He  walked  down  a  noticeable  slope,  and 
halfway  he  met  a  dead  man,  sliding  on  an  upward 
current. 

The  stranger  bobbed  into  him  and  went  asprawl  like 
a  clumsy  and  apologetic  paser-by.  His  sightless 
eyes  peered  into  Wetherbee's  with  mild  reproach. 
Wetherbee  thrust  him  off,  and  he  went  bowing  and 
spinning  gravely  on  his  course. 

Wetherbee  cared  for  no  such  matters.  His  nerve 
remained  unshaken,  his  pulses  calm,  as  befitted  a  man 
who  had  played  out  the  end  of  a  difficult  game  to  re 
warded  success.  But  as  he  resumed  his  retreat  down 
the  passage  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  something  surely 
quite  as  human  and  lively  as  himself. 

The  light  was  somewhat  stronger  now  and  flooding 
in  through  the  side  panel  made  a  kind  of  proscenium 
of  the  landing  by  the  main  companionway.  And  in 
that  space  he  described  a  dim  form  facing  him  there, 
looking  toward  him :  a  man  as  tall  as  himself,  clad 
like  himself  in  diving  rig  —  like  himself  in  polished 
copper  helmet.  He  knew  only  two  helmets  of  that 
particular  shape  and  color.  One  he  wore.  The  other 
he  had  left  on  the  deck  of  the  Fancy  Free,  his  spare 
diving  gear.  No  man  of  his  crew  ever  could  have 
worn  it,  for  none  of  them  used  an  apparatus.  There 
fore  he  knew  that  Deacon  Selden  had  come  down 
after  all  to  dispute  the  prize  with  him  and  to  claim 
vengeance  on  the  spot. 

He  exulted ;  he  could  have  wished  it  so  and  not 
otherwise.  He  had  meant  to  kill  Selden  anyhow.  But 
this  was  the  time  and  the  place  and  the  manner  to 
kill  him ;  a  manner  to  match  and  to  complete  his  crime 
as  an  artistic  achievement.  One  blow  on  the  helmet 
would  crush  the  fellow's  eardrums.  And  leave  no 
trace  —  no  trace  at  all !  He  could  bear  the  body  quite 


220       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

openly  to  Port  Kennedy,  and  even  inter  it  with 
honors  for  an  unfortunate  hand  who  had  died  in  the 
line  of  duty.  No  trace.  Everybody  outgeneraled, 
duped,  and  defeated  and  himself  free  as  air. 

And  the  scream  of  it  was:  Selden  was  going  to 
fight!  He  saw  that  when  he  took  a  stride  and  the 
other  moved  up  with  him.  He  stretched  out  a  hand 
to  steady  for  a  rush.  So  did  the  other.  He  swung 
up  his  armed  fist.  The  other  did  the  like.  .  .  . 

Laughing  loud  inside  his  casque,  he  flung  the  bar 
above  his  head,  and  went  to  meet  the  adversary  in 
crashing  impact. 

Meanwhile,  above  in  the  sunshine,  on  the  deck  of  the 
Fancy  Free,  a  limp  and  wild-eyed  gentleman,  who  had 
once  been  deacon  in  his  far  past,  continued  to  call 
abroad  with  prayful  fervor,  if  any  help  might  come: 

"  The  wicked  man  lieth  in  wait  secretly  as  a  lion.  .  .  . 
Lo,  he  hath  said  in  his  heart,  God  hath  forgotten:  he 
hideth  his  wrong  in  his  heart.  .  .  .  Let  him  be  snared  in 
his  own  pit :  in  the  net  which  he  hid  is  his  own  foot  taken. 
.  .  .  Lord,  break  Thou  the  arm  of  the  wicked  and  the 
evil  man.  .  .  !" 

And  when  the  first  luggers  came  flying  from  Port 
Kennedy  to  the  scene  of  the  wreck  and  the  first  in 
vestigators  went  below,  they  found  the  lifeless  body 
of  Captain  Wetherbee,  the  only  honest  man  that  ever 
came,  to  Thursday  Island  by  sea,  who  had  been 
drowned  there :  impaled  among  the  shards  and  splin 
ters  of  a  broken  mirror  that  had  served  to  mask  a 
saloon  door  aboard  the  murdered  Brisbane  steamer. 


MEANING  — CHASE  YOURSELF, 

AT  the  moment  I  first  saw  Angus  Jones  I  was 
taking  my  ease  on  Funchal  beach.  I  lay  by 
an  upturned  market  boat,  careful  to  keep 
even  my  feet  in  the  shade.  This  is  a  prime  precaution 
when  you  wear  three  toes  leaking  through  either  shoe 
and  you  live  under  a  sun  that  burns  like  the  white 
hot  spot  in  a  crown  sheet.  It  was  breathless  noon. 
The  waves  came  marching  in  to  hiss  on  the  basalt  cob 
bles.  Nevertheless  and  after  a  manner  I  was  taking 
my  ease,  the  only  thing  I  was  still  free  to  take  in  all 
Madeira  and  the  last  thing  I  shall  ever  give  up  any 
where. 

Off  the  one  quay  lay  a  rusted  tramp  with  the  lines 
of  a  wash  boiler  and  the  flag  of  Siam  —  of  all  tropic 
flags  —  hanging  over  her  stern  like  a  dishrag  to  a 
nail.  With  shoutings  a  half-naked  crew  hauled  bags 
and  crates  out  of  her  into  shore  boats.  Her  decks 
were  a  litter  of  teak  beams,  ill-stowed.  She  carried  a 
sloven  list  that  brought  her  port  chains  under,  and 
she  shouldered  at  her  anchor  like  a  drunken  man  at  a 
post.  Moreover,  the  reek  of  her  was  an  offense  along 
the  water  front. 

And  yet  I  desired  her,  with  all  her  untidiness,  her 
filth,  her  unseemly  violence  of  activity,  for  presently 
when  her  cargo  was  out  she  would  stagger  off  the 
roadstead  as  she  had  come  and  bear  away  for  some 
other  port  —  any  other  port.  Happy  ship  that  could 
be  free  to  head  up  into  the  world  again.  Happy  souls 
aboard  who  should  leave  the  black  beach  of  Funchal 
behind  them!  And  so  I  lay  and  watched  and  envied 

221 


222       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

her  and  them,  admonishing  sand  hoppers  between 
whiles. 

"  Do  you  chance  to  have  the  loan  of  a  match  about 
you?"  .  .  . 

I  sat  up  the  better  to  stare.  The  stranger  stood  all 
of  seven  feet,  it  seemed  to  me,  built  like  a  lath,  hung 
around  and  about  with  the  wreck  of  tweeds.  But  what 
struck  me  was  his  headgear.  He  wore  one  of  those 
wool  caps,  half  an  inch  thick,  with  which  an  inscrutable 
Providence  has  moved  the  peasantry  of  this  blistering 
isle  to  inflict  themselves.  He  had  the  ear  flaps  down. 
It  made  me  sweat  again  to  see  him.  But  he  seemed 
amazingly  cool.  And  so  indeed  he  was,  for  this  was 
Angus  Jones. 

"Do  you  find  yourself  in  need  of  a  fire?"  I  asked. 

"  It's  for  a  light  to  my  pipe." 

"  I'd  rather  not  disturb  myself,"  I  told  him,  "  but  a 
smoke  is  an  inducement.  If  the  tobacco  is  worth  it, 
I  can  probably  raise  a  match  or  two  from  some  fisher 
man." 

"  Rest  yourself  again,"  he  said,  observing  me  with 
interest.  "  I  see  you  are  a  man  of  judgment.  ...  It 
was  my  idea  if  I  could  beg  a  match  I  could  also  beg  the 
rest." 

So  we  reclined  in  the  shade  together,  Angus  Jones 
and  I,  and  conversed  in  the  liberal  fashion  of  our  call 
ing. 

"  I  am  newly  come  from  over  yon."  He  hooked  a 
thumb  toward  the  mountains  that  wall  the  almost  un 
known  North  Coast.  "  The  cheese  from  ewes  is  sus 
taining  but  monotonous.  The  people  are  of  an  incred 
ible  simplicity.  They  talk  pure  Portuguese  of  the  four 
teenth  century,  and  they  count  on  their  fingers." 

"  You  should  have  stayed  there,"  I  made  answer. 
"  The  people  here  are  sophisticated  by  tourists  and 
poverty.  Also  cheese  is  superior  to  cactus  fruit,  and 
from  sugar  cane  one  turns  at  last  with  loathing." 


MEANING  — CHASE    YOURSELF        223 

"  Do  you  work  for  it  ?  " 

I  was  long  since  lost  to  shame.  I  confessed  how 
I  ballyhooed  at  the  door  of  an  embroidery  shop  when 
ever  a  ship  loosed  English  passengers  for  a  two-hour 
visit. 

"  Not  good  enough,"  decided  Angus  Jones. 
"  Though,  mark  you,  I  should  never  admit  a  town  of 
this  size  to  be  as  barren  as  you  say.  Still  I  am  fed 
up  with  Madeira.  I  am  disappointed  in  Madeira.  Is 
it  believable,  after  my  stay  of  a  month,  I  have  yet  to 
meet  the  famous  wine  of  the  name  on  its  native 
heath?" 

"  Quite,  since  it  does  not  exist.  You  could  have  met 
only  an  inferior  imported  Malaga  with  a  fake  label." 

"Can  such  things  be?"  asked  Jones,  with  an  ex 
pression  of  pain. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  a  fraud.  Like  the  coasters  from  the 
Monte  that  have  to  be  shoved,  and  the  embroidery, 
which  is  cheaper  in  Paris,  and  the  beggars,  who  are  the 
only  wealthy  citizens  by  escaping  the  taxes." 

He  considered. 

"  I  think  I  shall  not  stay.  Tell  me,  how  does  a  lad 
like  you  or  me  set  about  getting  away  from  Madeira?  " 

"  How  much  money  have  you  ?  " 

"  As  much  as  a  gentleman  needs." 

"  Not  good  enough,"  I  echoed.  "  This  is  the  one 
place  in  the  world  you  cannot  leave  without  paying 
for  the  privilege." 

He  looked  down  on  my  bitterness  from  between  his 
ear  flaps. 

"  Man,"  he  said,  "  when  dealing  with  people  of  a 
racial  simplicity,  never  talk  of  paying.  'Tis  in  the 
nature  of  the  lesser  nationalities  to  bear  the  white  man 
as  a  burden." 

And  I  laughed.  It  was  a  blessing  to  laugh.  I 
thought  I  had  forgotten  how. 

"Tell  me  that  after  a  month  in  Funchal,"  I  said. 


224       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

"  I  will  teach  you  a  new  way  of  cooking  cactus  and 
how  to  steal  sugar  when  the  moon  is  full." 

He  regarded  me  solemnly  and  shook  his  head. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here?  " 

"  So  long  I  would  surely  slip  on  my  ear  if  I  should 
ever  again  walk  on  anything  but  cobbles." 

"  'Tis  living  among  these  islanders  has  taught  you 
such  simplicity.  Mark  me.  For  two  days  I  have  not 
eaten.  I  require  food,  liquor,  and  to  be  helped  on  my 
way.  Your  case  is  much  the  same,  I  take  it.  Good. 
Now  I  say  —  I,  Angus  Jones  —  that  all  these  things 
shall  be  procured  for  the  two  of  us.  .  .  .  Come,  and  let 
me  restore  your  faith." 

For  the  sake  of  the  jest  I  bestirred  myself  and  went 
with  him,  well  knowing  what  he  would  find.  We 
climbed  to  the  deserted  Rua  Da  Praia,  past  the  red 
stone  tower  that  is  known  as  Benger's  Folly,  and  in  a 
cave-like  office  under  the  blue  arms  of  the  South  Amer 
ican  Line  we  approached  its  greasy  little  agent.  .  .  . 

"  Passige  ?  Passige  ?  Maybeso.  Sometimes  iss  a 
trimmer  or  two  dead  coming  up  from  Rio  und  they 
need  a  man  to  Hamburg.  Only  you  must  shovel  coal 
all  day  and  night.  Ha,  ha!  How  will  you  like  that? 
Show  me  anyways  your  exit  receipt  und  I  will  take 
down  the  names." 

"My  which?"  asked  Angus  Jones. 

"Have  you  not  paid  your  exit,  to  the  customs?" 

"  I  propose  to  take  my  exit,  not  pay  it,"  said  Angus 
Jones. 

"  Ha,  ha.  But  first,  my  friend,  you  must  pay. 
Naturally  you  get  no  wages  for  a  passige,  therefore 
we  cannot  advance  it." 

"  But  why  should  — " 

The  agent  waved  his  arms  and  faded  in  the  cave. 

"  I  am  busy,"  said  he,  "  Va-se'mbora! " 


MEANING  — CHASE    YOURSELF        225 

We  proceeded  along  the  rua  to  the  sign  of  the  Elder- 
Dempsters.  .  .  . 

"  To  ship  ?  "  A  bilious  Anglo-Portuguese  behind 
the  desk  eyed  us  up  and  down.  "  Would  a  captain's 
cabin  at  forty  pounds  suit  you  ?  " 

"  Thanks,"  said  Angus  Jones.  "  I'll  consider  it.  But 
in  the  meanwhile  — " 

"  Have  you  paid  the  Government  tax?" 

"I  am  unable—" 

"  Enough,"  snapped  the  Anglo-Portuguese.  "  Va- 
se'mboral"  .  .  . 

At  the  Booth  Line  agency  we  encountered  a  lank 
gentleman  with  a  languid  smile  who  further  enlight 
ened  Angus  Jones. 

"Take  on  hands  at  Madeira?  You're  crazy.  Do 
you  suppose  we  want  the  port  closed  to  us  for  shipping 
monarchist  suspects?  They  always  head  for  Brazil, 
and  we're  watched  every  minute." 

"  I  am  not  a  monarchist,  nor  yet  a  suspect,"  said 
Angus  Jones. 

"  You're  the  only  man  around  here  who  can  say  so. 
A  word  of  advice.  Go  straight  to  the  alfandega  and 
pay  your  tax.  If  any  one  hears  you're  trying  to  get 
away  without  squaring  yourself  with  the  authorities, 
you'll  more  likely  get  a  free  passage  to  jail." 

"Sir  —  !" 

"  And  I'll  ask  you  kindly  not  to  hang  about  my 
place.  Now,  I've  done  my  best  for  you.  Va-se'mbora!  " 

In  the  street  Angus  Jones  deigned  to  question  me. 

"  What  is  this  unlucky  tax?  " 

"  It  is  levied  on  every  one  who  chooses  to  export  him 
self  from  these  salubrious  shores,"  I  explained.  "  It 
is  a  matter  of  five  hundred  reis." 

That  brought  him  to  a  dead  halt  in  his  tracks. 

"How  did  you  thrive  in  the  mountains?"  I  was 
moved  to  ask. 

"  Moderately,  as  a  corn  doctor.     It»  is  their  simple 


226       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT   ENDS 

custom  to  wear  shoes  three  sizes  too  small.  The  only 
drawback  was  the  absence  of  currency.  When  I  came 
to  collect,  what  was  my  grief  to  find  they  still  rely  on 
barter  and  exchange." 

"  Then  you  will  be  relieved  to  hear,  possibly,  that 
five  hundred  reis  is  no  more  than  half  a  dollar." 

"  The  simplicity  of  them ! "  cried  Angus  Jones. 
"  Do  you  know,  it  is  a  relief.  And  yet,  it  scarce  bet 
ters  us,  for  he  who  lacks  the  penny  also  lacks  the 
pound. 

"  However,  we  will  concede  the  point  of  departure, 
temporarily.  Remains  the  populace,  the  great  and 
generous  heart  that  animates  the  bosom  of  the  native 
race.  What  is  a  steamship  agent?  .  .  .  Man,  he  also 
is  a  stranger  living  on  their  simplicity." 

We  turned  into  a  maze  of  cobbled  ways  behind  the 
market,  passing  between  rows  of  shuttered  shops.  It 
was  the  offseason,  and  in  this  midday  hour  the  city 
dozed. 

"  Here  should  be  the  local  version  of  a  delicatessen," 
said  Angus  Jones  before  the  store  of  Joao  Gomez. 
We  entered  where  Joao  sat  intrenched  amid  sugar 
loaves  and  tinned  goods  and  silvered  sausages,  beneath 
a  flock  of  lard  balloons  no  rounder  nor  shinier  than 
his  face. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Angus  Jones.  "  I  hope  you 
are  quite  well.  I  hope  all  your  family  are  quite  well. 
Behold  in  me,  sir,  a  learned  medico  recently  come  from 
London  with  healing  for  these  islands.  Any  and  all 
ills  to  which  flesh  is  heir  are  banished  by  a  certain 
marvelous  drug  of  which  I  am  the  happy  possessor. 
Have  you  boils,  fever,  gangrene,  distemper?  Do  you 
sneeze,  palpitate,  or  feel  pain  in  sinciput  or  occiput, 
tibia,  diaphragm  or  appendix?  Are  you  subject  to 
measles,  dropsy,  pyromania,  or  falling  arch?" 

Joao  Gomez  had  opened  one  eye  far  enough  to  en- 


MEANING  — CHASE    YOURSELF        227 

visage  the  eloquent  intruder  and  to  locate  his  broom. 

"  Va-se'mboral "  quoth  Joao,  and  we  were  eager  so 
to  do,  for  the  broom  was  the  ancient  kind  made  of 
switches,  and  it  stung.  .  .  . 

"  Note  the  error  in  style,"  said  Angus  Jones  with 
a  slight  frown.  "  My  context  is  too  sauced  and  sa 
vored.  I  must  mend  it.  A  crisper  brevity  serves  our 
need  with  such  simple  people." 

At  the  bazaar  where  Martinho  Agostinho  Sousa  sold 
stamps,  liquors,  basketware,  and  curios  of  many  sorts 
to  the  marauding  tourist  we  reconnoitered. 

"  I  like  the  name,"  declared  Angus  Jones.  "  There 
is  a  wistful  dampness  about  it.  That  Agostinho,  now. 
What  piquant  promise  !  And  Sousa  —  if  pronounced 
in  the  simplest  manner.  Can  this  be  an  omen?" 

Martinho  was  within  and  welcomed  us  with  pur- 
rings  and  graceful  gestures. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Angus  Jones.  "  I  see  you 
deal  in  many  things  fine  and  rare.  I  have  here  an 
article  which  I  am  forced  to  sell  for  a  shade  of  its 
value.  You  can  make  a  thousand  per  cent  profit  from 
the  first  collector.  Give  me  a  dollar  and  call  it 
square."  .  .  . 

He  opened  a  thin  wallet  and  laid  on  the  counter  a 
faded  internal-revenue  stamp  such  as  seals  a  packet 
of  tobacco  in  a  happier  land.  Martinho  looked  at  it 
and  from  it  to  Angus  Jones,  and  his  suavity  departed 
from  him. 

"What  t'  Sam  Hill  you  take  me  for?  And  me  that 
run  a  gin  mill  in  Lawrence,  Mass. !  Do  I  look  like  a 
fall  guy?  .  .  .  Beat  it,  you  long-legged  hobo!  On 
your  way ! " 

Thus  he  pursued  us  with  rude  outcry,  but  at  the 
end  lapsed  and  blew  us  along  with  a  final  vernacular 
blast :  "  Va-se'mboral " 

We  arrived  with  speed  at  the  Praca  da  Constituicao, 


228       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

the  main  square.  Angus  Jones  was  somewhat  winded 
but  unsubdued. 

"  How  could  I  know  a  wretched  exile  had  returned 
to  contaminate  the  soil  with  foreign  vulgarity  ? "  he 
inquired.  "  Give  me  a  native  institution." 

Then  with  an  evil  humor  I  pointed  out  to  him  the 
Golden  Gate,  hospitably  open  to  all  vagrant  airs  that 
stirred  among  the  plane  trees. 

"That  is  the  social  heart  and  center  of  Funchal," 
I  told  him,  quite  truly. 

The  hairy  and  muscular  proprietor  of  the  Golden 
Gate  was  nodding  over  the  great  porcelain  handles  of 
his  beer  pumps  like  a  switchman  in  his  tower. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Angus  Jones.  "  I  see  you 
have  no  billiard  marker.  Tis  a  greaty  pity,  but  soon 
mended." 

The  proprietor  rolled  out  with  a  formidable  roar, 
rubbing  his  eyes. 

"Pedro,  my  glasses!  Billiar'?  On  the  minute,  mos' 
honorable  sir.  How  stupid  am  I  that  a  ship  should 
be  in  and  I  catched  in  a  sleeping!  We  have  a  ver* 
fine  table  of  billiar',  French  or  English,  if  you  please 
should  look.  Pedro,  my  glasses!  Is  it  a  Castle  Liner 
you  arrive  by,  mos'  honorable?  Will  you  have  beer 
or  wheesky-sod' ?  "  He  bobbed  and  leered,  blind  as 
an  owl.  I  might  have  warned  Angus  Jones,  but  I  did 
not.  I  only  stood  where  I  had  a  clear  space  to  the 
door. 

"  All  in  good  time,"  said  Angus  Jones.  "I  speak  of 
a  marker.  In  billiards,  if  you  mark  me,  the  marking 
is  a  proper  art.  Now,  there  I  meet  you  as  an  expert. 
Give  me  charge  of  your  billiard  room,  and  I'll  double 
your  business." 

"Billiar'?    Yes,  yes;  only  wait.  .  .  .  Pedro!" 

Pedro  appeared  as  from  a  trap,  with  a  pair  of 
spectacles. 


MEANING  — CHASE  YOURSELF         229 

"  Do  I  get  the  job?  "  asked  Angus  Jones. 

"Jobe!"  exclaimed  the  proprietor.  "What  jobe?" 
He  put  on  his  glasses  and  eyed  the  applicant  up  and 
down.  "Ah-h-h!  You  wish— ?...  What  is  here?" 
he  bellowed,  and  fell  back  on  his  bar. 

"  I  seek  a  place  as  billiard  marker,"  said  Angus 
Jones. 

" Sagrada  Familial     Pig  spy  of  a  monarchist!" 

The  Portuguese  equivalent  of  bungstarter  whiffed 
Angus  Jones  by  an  eyelash.  The  rafters  shook.  We 
had  a  start  to  the  door,  and  needed  it.  Jones  cleared 
the  sill  with  the  aid  of  a  ponderous  foot.  In  the  driv 
ing  hail  of  oaths  and  beer  mugs  we  tore  across  the 
Praca.  A  little  soldier  in  blue  linen  started  up  from 
somewhere.  Two  others  ran  out  of  a  doorway.  A 
crippled  beggar  threw  his  crutch  at  us  with  a  curse. 
Loungers,  ragamuffins,  street  cars,  joined  the  chase 
with  clamorous  glee  as  we  turned  up  an  alley.  All 
Funchal  joined  in  the  chorus  behind  us. 

"  Va-se'mbora ! "    Va-se'mbora ! " 

And  so  consigned  we  fled  at  last  to  safety  among 
suburban  gardens  and  burst  panting  through  a  cane 
brake. 

I  said  nothing  to  Angus  Jones.  Comment  was  too 
obvious.  Angus  Jones  said  nothing  to  me.  Comment 
was  inadequate.  But  I  made  such  amends  as  lay  with 
me.  At  a  little  change  house  by  the  sugar  fields  I 
spent  my  one  coin  for  a  bottle  of  wine.  The  wink 
and  gasp  of  Angus  Jones  as  that  flagrant  vintage 
seared  his  throat  ended  the  gentle  jape  as  far  as  I 
was  concerned.  He  knew  more  about  Madeira  now 
and  he  no  longer  condescended  to  me.  .  .  . 

We  regained  the  water  front  by  a  devious  route  and 
came  down  toward  the  quay  among  odorous  fishing 
smacks  and  tangled  nets.  Hotter,  more  desolate  than 
ever,  lay  that  black  griddle  of  the  foreshore  on  which 
Angus  Jones  was  now  condemned  to  wander  with  me. 


230       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

Nothing  moved  along  its  pebbly  waste  but  heat  waves 
and  boiling  surf  and  hopping  insects  in  clouds. 

Off  the  jetty  lay  the  Siamese  tramp,  still  heaving 
in  the  ground  swell,  and  we  came  down  to  the  edge  to 
stare  across  at  her.  As  pariahs  before  a  vision  of 
paradise  we  stood  and  yearned  toward  that  disrepu 
table  hulk. 

They  had  almost  finished  with  her  cargo.  At  this 
moment  they  held  a  clumsy  crate  balanced  over  the 
side  in  a  sling,  seeking  to  lower  it  upon  a  shore  boat 
about  the  size  of  a  dinghy.  The  crew  swarmed  like 
furious  ants,  and  a  white  officer  in  dirty  ducks  flailed 
amid  the  riot.  As  the  chain  swung  we  saw  the  crate 
was  really  a  clumsy  cage  in  which  ramped  a  huge  and 
tawny  form. 

"  The  circus,"  I  murmured. 

"  Ha !  "  said  Angus  Jones. 

"  Not  the  kind  of  circus  you  mean,"  I  assured  him. 
"  No  clowns,  no  rings,  no  shell  games.  It's  a  kind  of 
fifth-class  traveling  menagerie,  from  what  I  hear, 
backed  as  a  new  venture  by  his  excellency  the  gover 
nor  himself.  They'll  house  it  in  that  round  barn  up  the 
promenade  where  the  cinema  lives,  and  anon  those  na 
tives  who  have  the  price  will  sit  around  on  the  benches 
and  tremble  and  scratch  themselves." 

"  But  why  should  it  be  thus  ?  "  asked  Angus  Jones. 

"  Well,  those  who  carry  fleas  — " 

"  No,  but  why  should  they  tremble  ?  " 

"  This  is  a  far  island.  No  one  hereabouts  has  ever 
seen  any  animals  more  savage  than  a  goat." 

"  True,"  said  Angus  Jones,  with  a  grimace  as  if 
he  had  bitten  into  a  sour  fruit.  "  It  is  their  sim 
plicity.  I  had  almost  forgot." 

Strange  that  he  should  have  taken  the  word  in  defeat 
and  disillusionment  at  that  moment,  for  just  then  the 
thing  happened.  There  burst  a  shrill  screaming  from 
the  tramp,  and  its  knot  of  toilers  flew  apart  like  bits 


MEANING  — CHASE    YOURSELF        231 

of  a  bomb.  Men  leaped  into  the  rigging,  climbed  the 
spars,  shot  down  the  hatchways.  The  hanging  cage 
sagged  and  cracked,  and  overside  flashed,  with  an 
arching  spring,  some  great  body  all  lithe  and  tawny  in 
the  sunlight.  It  plunged,  and  presently  reappeared, 
surging  for  shore. 

I  felt  suddenly  conspicuous  on  that  beach.  We  stood 
far  from  shelter.  Nor  are  cobbles  good  to  run  upon.  .  . 

"  I  think  we'd  better  be  going,"  I  suggested,  and 
caught  sight  of  my  companion,  and  stopped. 

He  still  wore  his  wool  cap,  and  it  occurred  to  me 
even  then  that  he  had  not  turned  a  hair  throughout 
our  flight.  But  now  his  face  was  curiously  splotched 
red  and  white  and  his  eyes  blazed  seaward  in  fixity. 
He  did  not  budge. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Angus  Jones  — "  tell  me  what  was 
that  word  with  which  they  harried  us  a  while  back? 
I  seemed  to  spy  a  meaning.  The  one  word  they  had 
for  us  alike  ?  " 

"Va-se'mbora?"  I  said,  fidgeting.  "Oh,  it's  the 
common  repulse  to  beggars  and  nuisances.  You  say 
it  when  you  want  to  be  rid  of  some  one.  Va-se'mbora! 
Which  means  in  the  vernacular:  Chase  yourself." 

"  Chase  yourself,"  repeated  Angus  Jones  softly. 
"  Think  of  that  now !  They  seek  to  tax  us.  They 
refuse  us  dole.  They  beat  us  here  and  yon.  They 
will  not  let  us  go,  though  we  would  only  leave  their 
country  for  their  country's  good.  .  .  .  Withal  they  tell 
us:  Chase  yourself!  And  they  are,  as  you  say,  a 
simple  people,  living  on  a  far  island." 

The  tawny  head  was  close  in. 

"  It's  time  to  move,"  I  urged. 

But  Angus  Jones  picked  up  an  oar  and  cut  the 
painter  from  a  fishing  boat  and  went  down  to  the 
water's  edge.  He  made  a  singular  figure  on  Funchal 
beach,  drawn  to  all  his  lean  height,  with  the  clothes 


232       .WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

flapping  on  him  as  he  struck  a  noble  pose.  For  my 
self  I  retreated  among  the  boats  where  I  might  hide 
in  some  cuddy. 

"  Observe  the  epic  grandeur  of  the  scene,"  declaimed 
Angus  Jones.  "  Here  I  stand  on  a  rock  in  mid- 
Atlantic  to  meet  the  raging  monarch  of  the  midmost 
jungle.  'Tis  lofty,  incredible  —  in  a  sense,  miracu 
lous." 

The  man  was  mad.  ...  I  called  to  him  again. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  come  away !  " 

But  Angus  Jones  smiled  out  over  the  blue  bay. 

"  As  if  St.  Patrick  were  to  welcome  a  sea  serpent  in 
the  dales  of  Wexford ! "  he  added,  raising  his  oar. 

And  there  crawled  out  of  the  wash  at  his  feet  a 
full-grown  male  lion,  gaunt  and  sopping,  with  crim 
son  jaws  distended.  .  .  . 

From  afar  among  the  fishing  boats  I  thought  many 
things  very  swiftly:  that  I  must  close  my  eyes  tight 
against  the  cruel,  bright  Madeira  sun  and  what  it 
would  show  —  this  for  one ;  that  I  should  never  again 
feed  crude  Malaga  to  a  man  with  an  empty  stomach 
—  for  another ;  that  perhaps  the  animal  might  be  some 
what  assuaged  with  the  sea  water,  and  finally  that 
here,  after  all,  was  a  miracle,  as  he  had  said. 

For  quite  surely  I  saw  Angus  Jones  fetch  the  jungle 
monarch  but  the  one  wallop  with  his  oar. 

"  Down !  "  thundered  Angus  Jones. 

The  lion  snarled,  spat,  crouched  —  and  began  to 
shake  its  paws  in  the  air  and  to  lick  its  fur  like  any 
prowler  of  the  back  fence,  all  forlorn  and  bedraggled. 

"  Kitty,  kitty !  "  said  Angus  Jones.  .  .  . 

The  lion  blinked  up  at  him.  He  stooped  and  tickled 
it  between  the  ears.  When  he  stood  up  again  the  rope 
was  noosed  about  its  neck,  and  the  other  end  of  the 
rope  was  in  his  hand.  He  hailed  me  to  stand  forth, 
and  I  obeyed  in  fear  and  great  wonder. 

"  Do  you  see  me?  "  said  Angus  Jones.    "  I  am  come 


MEANING  — CHASE    YOURSELF        233 

of  the  dominant  race.  Do  you  see  my  cat?  It  is  the 
proper  pet  for  such  a  man.  And  now — "  He  drew 
a  long  breath  through  his  nose.  "And  now  we  will 
resume  our  investigations  amid  the  haunts  of  these 
simple  islanders." 

So  we  turned  back  and  made  our  second  entrance 
into  Funchal  —  Angus  Jones  and  I  —  and  the  lion  on 
a  leading  string.  It  was  stupendous,  and  yet  it  went 
simply  enough.  Our  progress  was  slow  because 
Thomas  —  Angus  declared  his  name  was  Thomas  — 
had  to  sit  down  every  few  feet  and  wash  his  feet  or  his 
face  or  some  part  of  him.  He  seemed  a  well-mannered 
and  an  amiable  beast.  But  he  was  a  fearsome  thing 
to  look  upon,  striding  up  the  peaceful  rua,  and  I  took 
no  part  when  Angus  Jones  yanked  him  along. 

We  called  first  at  the  shop  of  Joao  Gomez.  There 
was  evidence  that  Joao  had  departed  by  the  back  way 
within  the  moment.  But  if  he  stood  not  upon  his  go 
ing  we  made  even  less  of  it.  Those  sausages  in  silver 
foil  were  the  true  fruit  of  Bologna,  ripe  and  spicy,  and 
there  were  chocolates,  and  dainty  biscuits  in  tins, 
pickled  mussels  and  Logos  figs,  anchovies  and  raisins 
and  hams,  real  Estremadura,  known  to  song  and  story. 
Such  delights  an  epicure  might  have  grudged  us,  but 
no  epicure  ever  brought  the  sharp  tooth  shared  by 
us  three.  For  three  at  the  feast  we  were.  Angus  Jones 
herded  the  lion  into  a  corner  and  fed  him  with  a  ham, 
and  he  was  grateful  and  made  about  two  bites  of  it. 

"  Thomas,"  said  Angus  Jones,  "  I  see  your  grievance 
is  like  our  own  —  grown  up  among  whips  and  scorns. 
Lay  on,  my  son.  'Tis  the  day  of  triumph."  And  his 
eye  was  bright  like  a  china  button. 

"  Can  you  hold  him  to  it?  "  I  asked  as  we  sat  in  the 
ruins  of  Joao's  stock. 

"Who?  Thomas?  He  also  has  played  a  part  on 
many  stages.  Do  you  note  the  scars  on  his  poor 


234       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

ribs  ?    He  may  even  have  known  me,  myself.    Hold !  " 

He  caught  up  a  leather  thong  and  cracked  it  like  a 
whip.  The  lion  spat,  but  rather  like  puss  at  the  fireside. 
His  great  yellow  eyes  blinked  mildly  and  the  lines 
about  them  were  lines  of  worry,  very  pathetic  to  see, 
and  his  chin  whiskers  waggled.  "  Don't  be  hard  on 
him,"  I  begged. 

"  Stand  there !  "  cried  Angus  Jones. 

The  beast  reared  meekly  on  his  haunches  and  stayed 
so  until  permitted  to  drop.  Angus  Jones  waved  a  ham 
bone  and  spoke  with  emotion. 

"  They  accused  us  as  monarchists.  Their  only  mis 
take  was  that  we  are  kings.  And  here  is  another 
royalty  who  shall  enter  upon  his  own  this  tide.  Royal 
shall  be  our  portion.  Come,  friends,  once  more  into 
the  breach  of  hospitality,  and  we'll  teach  these  yellow 
simps  who  they've  been  entertaining  unawares.  Come 
where  glory  waits ! " 

We  went  forth  into  Funchal,  and  before  our  steps 
as  we  moved  it  might  have  been  a  city  of  the  dead,  but 
further  about  it  seethed.  No  one  crossed  our  path, 
and  every  house  was  barred  and  bolted  where  we 
passed,  but  only  just  in  time.  There  was  a  scuttling,  a 
screaming,  and  a  terror  in  the  air,  a  slamming  of  doors 
and  windows,  a  crying  upon  saints  and  small  children. 
Ox  sleds  stampeded  in  the  next  square.  A  flock  of 
goats  climbed  a  garden  wall  ahead  of  us.  Dogs  and 
boys  went  heeling  it  up  every  alley,  and  people  swept 
past  the  street  ends  in  a  froth  of  white  faces.  Even 
church  bells  began  to  chatter  and  toll  as  for  a  pesti 
lence. 

Through  all  we  paced  in  stately  procession,  slowly, 
munching  in  content,  and  Thomas  with  a  skittish 
wreath  of  sausages  round  his  neck,  so  that  I  know  not 
what  chance  kept  the  alarm  from  reaching  our  new 


MEANING  — CHASE    YOURSELF        235 

acquaintance  until  the  very  instant  of  our  entrance 
into  his  bazaar  —  where  there  was  no  back  door.  The 
drop  of  his  jaw,  his  squeal  as  he  climbed  the  shelves 
against  an  avalanche  of  bottles  and  demijohns,  his 
frantic  perch  among  the  basketwork  —  these  were  rare 
tribute.  .  .  . 

"  Are  you  there,  old  dear,  late  of  Lawrence,  Mass.  ?  " 
inquired  Angus  Jones.  "  The  drinks  are  on  us.  What 
will  you  have,  Martini  Angostura  de  Souse  ?  " 

Thomas  was  somewhat  curious  of  Martinho  and  sat 
him  down  in  the  midst  of  the  shop.  Here  he  yawned 
upward  chastely,  and  the  quaking  of  Martinho  made 
the  glassware  dance. 

"  Don't  let  that  thing  loose ! "  begged  the  liquor 
dealer.  And  indeed  Thomas  as  an  indoor  spectacle 
was  paralyzing. 

Angus  Jones  kept  the  rope  taut  as  if  by  his  single 
effort  the  ravening  beast  was  alone  restrained. 

"  We  would  not  so  hastily  deprive  ourselves  of  you," 
he  said.  "  We  require  you  to  name  the  drink.  'Tis  no 
light  matter.  We  want  the  best  in  the  house.  The 
best,  mind  you.  And  if  you  do  not  wholly  suit  us,  I 
bid  ye  beware !  " 

Martinho  writhed,  but  he  was  not  long  deciding.  He 
took  no  chances  with  that  red  pit  of  a  mouth  below 
him.  At  his  direction  I  drew  forth  the  cobwebbed 
flasks,  and  even  in  the  act  he  groaned  aloud.  For  this 
was  his  treasure.  .  .  .  No  import,  but  genuine  liquid 
gold  of  the  soil,  the  kind  that  once  gave  Madeira  such 
great  honor.  It  bore  the  magic  brand  Malvasia,  under 
date  of  '57,  and  truly  it  was  the  drink  of  the  gods, 
smooth  as  honey  and  sweet  as  a  nut. 

Angus  Jones  let  it  trickle  slowly  over  his  palate  and 
reverently  read  the  faded  label,  and  it  was  as  if  a 
holy  balm  had  spread  upon  his  wounds. 

"  Sir,  I  thank  you,"  he  said,  hushed  and  solemn. 
"  Sir,  you  have  a  thirsty  name  I  shall  long  remember. 


236       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

For  now  I  perceive  a  great  truth  —  that  no  title  is 
given  wholly  in  vain.  Thus  at  last  we  find  the  good 
of  Madeira,  though  extracted  before  your  time." 

It  was  no  sample  we  took  with  us;  we  added  the 
whole  basket  of  that  precious  wine  to  our  loot  when 
we  bade  farewell  to  Martinho  and  left  him  babbling  on 
his  shelf.  .  .  . 

And  here  I  have  recorded  the  true  culmination  of 
our  great  adventure.  What  comes  after  remains 
dimmed  and  mellowed,  tinged  with  joy  and  also  with 
a  tender  sadness,  consecrate  to  a  fragrant  and  in 
comparable  memory.  I  know  that  we  came  forth  from 
Sousa's  in  undisputed  possession  of  all  Funchal.  I 
know  that  we  advanced  as  conquerors  through  the 
was,  calcades  and  passeios  that  had  witnessed  our  dis 
comfiture.  I  know  that  as  we  entered  the  Praca  da 
Constituicao  a  mighty  shout  went  up,  and  that  when 
we  paraded  the  great  plaza  from  end  to  end  its  roofs 
were  black  with  spectators,  but  no  man  set  foot  to 
ground  within  sight  of  us.  These  things  seemed  then 
but  trifles,  the  natural  incident  to  such  a  pilgrimage  as 
we  made  together,  we  celebrities,  now  four  in  num 
ber  —  Angus  Jones,  and  I,  and  Thomas,  and  the  basket 
of  Malvasia,  '57. 

It  must  have  been  about  the  end  of  the  second  bottle 
that  we  hunted  mine  hairy  host  of  the  Golden  Gate 
through  all  the  rooms  of  his  barracks  and  smoked  his 
Teneriffe  cigars  at  one  thousand  reis,  and  made  him 
play  billiards  with  three  oranges  while  we  marked  the 
count  upon  his  rear  with  cues.  He  was  a  vile  shot, 
I  remembered,  so  we  took  to  recording  his  misses,  and 
Angus  Jones  said  this  was  the  most  wonderful  sys 
tem  of  marking  ever  invented,  and  taught  him  free  of 
all  charge.  I  was  greatly  moved  at  the  generosity  of 
Jones  in  this  matter  and  embraced  him.  It  seemed  to 
bespeak  so  grand  and  forgiving  a  character. 


MEANING  —  CHASE    YOURSELF        237 

The  fourth  bottle  had  probably  been  broached  by 
the  time  we  raided  the  Commercial  Association  and 
flushed  three  steamship  agents.  One  we  set  to  shovel 
ing  coal  on  the  public  highway  and  the  other  two 
marched  around  him  singing  the  monarchist  anthem  — 
I  was  the  prompter  in  that  piece.  I  have  an  idea  it 
was  a  success,  for  the  roofs  passed  the  word,  and  we 
could  hear  them  howling  half  a  mile  back.  They  do 
not  like  the  monarchist  anthem  in  Funchal. 

Certainly  the  basket  was  quite  light  when  parley  was 
called  at  last.  This  historic  event  took  place  under 
the  high  stone  tower  that  is  known  as  Benger's  Folly 
where  certain  eminent  citizens  had  taken  refuge,  and  I 
have  reason  to  think  the  overtures  came  from  no  less 
a  person  than  his  excellency  the  governor  himself. 
"  What  do  we  want  ?  "  echoed  Angus  Jones  in  reply  to 
that  hail.  "  What  do  we  want?  " 

He  leaned  ever  so  slightly  on  the  massive  shoulder 
of  Thomas  —  I  was  in  support  with  the  basket  —  and 
let  a  voluptuous  eye  run  from  end  to  end  of  the  water 
front.  So  the  Spanish  conquistador  may  have  looked 
who  took  the  place  in  the  sixteenth  century.  And  so 
he  had  a  right  to  look  on  subject  territory. 

"  We  are  fed ;  we  have  drunk  —  gloriously  have  we 
drunk,"  said  Angus  Jones.  "  Honor  is  now  restored, 
and  to  these  people  the  conviction  of  their  native  and 
essential  shim  —  sim,  pardon  me,  simplishity."  He 
waved  a  hand.  "  We  require  to  be  helped  on  our  way. 
For  cabin  passage  in  yonder  vessel,  tax  free  and  duly 
paid,  we  will  remit  the  rest.  Let  it  be  peach,"  said 
Angus  Jones.  "  Yes,  let  us  have  peash !  " 

And  as  he  said  so  it  was. 

I  have  a  vague  recollection  of  seeing  Thomas  be 
hind  his  bars  again  somewhere  and  of  parting  from 
him,  with  tears,  I  think;  then  of  the  rusted  side  of  a 
ship  and  its  blessed  planks  under  my  feet  —  for  a  time. 


238       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 
One  last  picture  lingers  ere  all  dissolves.  .  .  . 

They  were  even  then  hoisting  anchor  aboard  our 
Siamese  tramp,  but  the  vessel  had  swung  her  stern 
shoreward  not  fifty  feet  off  the  quay.  Angus  Jones 
stood  alone  by  the  taffrail  in  full  view  of  the  stricken 
throng  which  had  flocked  down  to  quay  and  beach  and 
promenade  to  see  us  go.  He  stood  alone,  that  mar 
velous  man,  holding  the  last  bottle  of  Malvasia  sweetly 
cradled  in  an  arm,  and  he  harangued  the  multitude. 
He  gave  a  dissertation  upon  Madeira,  I  believe,  its  men, 
manners,  and  morals.  What  he  said  is  lost  to  fame, 
though  doubtless  it  was  pithy  and  pointed.  But  I  re 
member  his  climax,  and  that  was  nothing  short  of  in 
spired.  He  flung  abroad  a  magnificent  gesture. 

"  Va-se'mbora! "  thundered  Angus  Jones  in  the  face 
of  the  populace.  "Va-se'mbora!" — Which  means  in 
the  vernacular :  Chase  yourself !  .  .  . 


THE  WICKS   OF  MACASSAR 

A  NATURALIST,  by  what  Andrew  Harben  told 
me,  is  a  man  that  goes  around  looking  for 
things    that    happen    by    nature.      The    more 
natural  they  are  the  better  pleased  is  he.     And  some 
day  if  he  looks  far  enough  he's  liable  to  fetch  up  against 
something  that  just  naturally  makes  a  meal  off  him 
and  he  goes  looking  no  farther. 

Anyway  this  is  what  I  gathered  from  Andrew  Har 
ben.  He's  all  right  now  and  when  last  I  saw  him  he 
was  pounding  chain  cables  by  the  Cape  Town  break 
water  —  such  being  the  most  denatured  employment 
he  could  find.  But  he  used  to  be  a  naturalist  himself 
and  interested  in  most  curious  facts  like  bugs  and 
poison  plants  and  wild  animals,  until  once  they  brought 
him  so  close  to  an  unnatural  finish  that  they  cured  him 
for  all  time  to  come.  .  .  . 

"  Keep  away  from  it,"  says  Andrew  Harben,  giving 
me  advice  while  he  chipped  the  rust  flakes  lovingly  into 
my  eyes.  "  Whenever  you  have  a  feeling  that  you'd 
like  to  be  a  great  scientific  investigator  and  discover 
what's  none  of  your  business,"  he  says,  "  go  and  pry 
into  a  keg  of  dynamite  with  a  chisel.  It's  quicker 
and  more  homelike.  But  leave  the  strange  places  and 
the  strange  secrets  of  the  earth  to  university  profes 
sors  and  magazine  writers,  they  being  poor  devils  and 
mostly  so  scrawny  that  nothing  would  bite  them  any 
way.  You  mightn't  believe  I  once  went  around  samp 
ling  rocks  and  fleabites  and  tribal  customs  and  things 
I  do  not  any  more.  And  yet  I  made  one  remarkable 
scientific  discovery  before  I  quit.  It  is  a  valuable  fact 
in  nature  and  I  will  hand  it  to  you  for  what  it's  worth, 
free  gratis." 

239 


240       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

Which  he  did,  and  I'm  doing  the  same. 

It  was  while  his  ambition  was  young  and  strong 
that  Andrew  Harben  took  a  job  from  the  Batavia 
Government  to  watch  a  screw-pile  light  by  the  Borneo 
shore  of  Macassar.  His  tastes  running  as  they  did,  you 
got  to  admit  his  judgment,  no  other  place  around  the 
earth  having  quite  so  much  nature  laid  on  it  to  the 
square  inch.  Mud  and  mangroves  and  sloughs  and 
swamps  make  a  cozy  home  that  suits  a  lot  of  queer  in 
habitants,  mostly  of  a  kind  you  and  me  would  be  high 
ly  wishful  to  avoid.  But  Andrew  Harben  he  opened  up 
his  specimen  cases  and  set  out  his  little  pickle  bottles 
full  of  alcohol  and  was  happy,  laughing  quite  humor 
ous  to  himself  at  the  idea  of  getting  paid  thirty  guilders 
a  month  for  such  a  privilege. 

The  lantern  at  Andrew  Harben's  light  must  have 
been  brought  out  by  the  first  Dutch  navigator.  A 
great  iron  scaffolding  in  the  middle  of  his  shack  held 
a  tub  of  oil.  Then  there  were  eight  flat  wicks  that 
led  up  through  a  perforated  sheet  of  iron  from  the 
oil  tub,  each  cropping  out  overhead  by  an  old-fashioned 
thumbscrew  feed.  And  around  the  wicks  was  built  the 
eight-sided  glass  cupola.  Yes,  it  was  a  kind  of  over 
grown  street  lamp  of  a  light,  but  mighty  important  in 
those  waters  just  the  same. 

The  keeper's  business  was  to  have  the  oil  tub  always 
full  and  to  climb  around  and  give  the  thumb-screws  a 
twist  every  hour  of  the  night.  So  long  as  he  kept  his 
wicks  trimmed  and  burning  nobody  cared  what  else  he 
did  on  the  side.  The  skipper  of  the  lighthouse  tender 
that  landed  Andrew  Harben  made  this  clear. 

"  Z'  last  mans  what  lifted  there  got  eats  by  z'  croco 
dile,"  he  said.  "  All  but  z'  feets  of  one,  which  we 
buried.  Zat  wass  awright,  only  zey  let  z'  lights  go 
out  and  zere  wass  wrecks.  Oh,  such  wrecks  because 
of  zese  dam  currents.  Now,  please,  if  you  got  mad, 


THE   WICKS   OF   MACASSAR  241 

be  so  good  to  stay  anyways  by  z'  lights  until  we  bring 
anozzer  mans,  if  it  is  all  z'  same  to  you." 

"  Don't  worry  about  me,"  said  Andrew  Harben,  who 
was  a  big,  hearty  chap.  "  I  shan't  go  mad,  no  fear. 
The  poor  fools  probably  hadn't  enough  brains  to  keep 
from  rattling  loose.  You  see,  I'm  a  scientist,  I  shall 
explore  the  wonders  of  natural  history.  My  work  here 
in  Borneo  shall  make  me  famous  and,  who  knows,  may 
make  my  fortune  as  well.  There  was  Philson,  who 
found  how  the  nipa  palm  can  be  made  to  yield  pure 
maple  sirup  at  a  cost  of  one  cent  per  gallon,  and  Big 
gins,  who  learned  that  the  distilled  juice  of  the  female 
mustard  spider  is  a  specific  for  the  pip  —  both  humble 
investigators  like  myself.  No.  I'll  have  enough  to 
keep  me  busy,  never  fret." 

"  Yes,"  remarked  the  skipper,  a  most  intelligent  half- 
caste,  Andrew  Harben  told  me,  being  educated  at  the 
Agricultural  School  at  Buitenzorg,  "  yes,  I  zink  maybe 
you  will.  So  you  are  a  natural  'istory?  In  zat  case 
a  crocodile  may  not  like  your  flavior,  you  zink?  Per 
haps  you  are  right.  I  will  stop  back  in  a  month  to 
see  if  zis  iss  z'  truth?  " 

"  How  many  men  have  held  this  job?  "  asked  Andrew 
Harben. 

"  Oh,  I  'ave  forgot  'ow  many,"  said  the  skipper,  with 
a  face  like  wood,  which  is  the  custom  of  half-castes 
when  they  lie. 

Andrew  Harben  might  have  lived  ashore  if  he'd 
wanted,  because  there  was  a  plank  walk  set  on  steel 
screw  piles  that  led  from  the  lighthouse  right  into  the 
mangroves.  But  he  preferred  the  idea  of  sitting  out 
there  in  the  evenings  to  watch  the  monkeys  and  the 
crabs  play  along  the  mud  flats  by  the  river  mouth. 
This  shack  was  his  box  seat. 

He  was  so  took  up  with  getting  settled  in  the  new 
roost  that  he  never  thought  to  overhaul  his  supplies 


242       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

till  the  skipper  was  gene.  Grub  and  oil  were  all  right, 
he  found,  but  one  thing  was  all  wrong.  Those  eight 
wicks  that  fed  the  lights  had  been  used  up  short.  Even 
when  he  filled  the  tub  level  he  hadn't  more  than  an 
inch  to  spare  all  around.  And  there  wasn't  an  extra 
wick  in  the  place. 

Andrew  Harben  ran  out  and  yelled  at  the  tender  that 
was  just  heading  up  for  Mangkalihat,  but  he  couldn't 
make  them  hear,  and  the  skipper  thought  he  was  only 
passing  compliments. 

So  he  was,  in  a  way,  being  sore.  This  thing  about 
the  wicks  was  just  blamed  carelessness  on  the  part  of 
the  three  Dutch  marines  who  had  held  the  place  tem 
porary  to  his  arrival.  Also  it  was  likely  to  prove  ex 
pensive  to  shipping  and  a  lot  of  trouble  to  him.  "  How 
the  devil  can  I  keep  those  footy  little  lights  going  for 
a  month  without  no  wicks  ?  "  said  Andrew  Harben. 

The  more  he  looked  and  thought  the  less  he  liked  it. 
Macassar  is  a  regular  crossroads.  Junks  from 
Kwangchow  toddle  by  after  sandalwood  and  birds' 
nests,  and  country  wallahs  go  smelling  their  way  —  and 
smelling  is  right  —  around  to  Banjermasin  after  ben 
zoin  and  rice,  and  tramps  of  all  breeds  with  Austra 
lian  coal  and  ironwood,  and  topsail  schooners  with 
anything  at  all  from  pepper  to  dead  Chinamen  —  a 
parade  like  Collins  Street  of  an  afternoon. 

Andrew  Harben  considered,  and  he  saw  what  a  mess 
he  would  start  thereabout  if  he  ever  let  his  lights  go 
out.  It  made  him  peevish,  because  he  hadn't  come  to 
be  bothered  with  such  matters,  and  he  started  to  piece 
out  those  wicks.  All  he  could  find  in  the  way  of  stuff 
was  his  socks.  He  tied  them  on  to  the  loose  ends  of 
the  wicks,  and  they  drew  oil  all  right,  but  he  only 
had  six,  being  a  frugal  man  in  habits.  Not  another 
thing  could  he  rummage  up  around  the  shack  to  help 
him,  no  yarn,  nor  twine,  nor  goods  of  any  kind. 


THE   WICKS   OF   MACASSAR  243 

"  Shall  we  be  stuck  by  such  naturalistic  obstacles?" 
said  Andrew  Harden,  and  he  took  his  pants,  which 
were  canvas,  and  hacked  them  with  a  knife.  By  ravel 
ing  off  about  four  inches  from  each  leg  he  got  enough 
cotton  thread  to  patch  the  other  two  wicks  with.  It 
left  him  kind  of  high-watered,  you  might  say.  Yes,  he 
was  well  ventilated  around  his  ankles,  and  not  having 
any  more  socks  to  his  feet  he  was  going  to  be  quite 
cool.  But  the  strait  was  safe  for  the  time,  and  he 
could  now  turn  his  attention  to  real  business. 

He  used  to  start  easy  every  morning  on  his  natural 
history  by  digging  out  a  few  billions  of  dead  moths 
that  had  snowed  in  his  lights  all  night.  Then  he'd 
hurry  ashore  over  his  plank  bridge  and  collect  snails 
and  fuzzy  worms  and  similar  crawlers  by  the  tide 
mark.  Later  he'd  work  into  heavier  stuff  —  bats  and 
leeches  and  centipedes  and  such  like  fascinating  rep 
tiles  —  or  maybe  dodge  a  panther  or  a  wild  pig  or  a 
boa  constrictor  in  the  jungle.  Finally  he'd  taper  off 
on  ticks,  which  took  to  him  most  amazing,  and  fire 
ants  and  scorpions  and  mosquitoes  as  big  as  your 
finger.  If  there  is  one  thing  more  evident  than  an 
other  in  Borneo  it's  insects,  and  Andrew  Harben  did 
say  he  often  swum  home  at  dusk  through  solid  waves 
of  them.  Taking  that  as  meant,  you  can  still  see  he 
would  be  by  no  means  lonesome. 

And  pretty  soon  he  had  company  of  another  kind 
too,  being  native.  These  were  a  tribe  of  simple  Bugis 
that  lived  infrequent  through  the  back  country  in  a 
state  of  innocence  you  would  hardly  imagine,  and  they 
were  very  hairy  and  most  friendly  to  Andrew  Harben, 
which  was  queer.  One  family  had  a  hang-out  near 
the  river,  and  it  wasn't  long  before  old  Allo  and  his 
seven  sons  were  serving  him  in  all  kinds  of  little 
ways.  As  soon  as  they  understood  his  idea  about 
animals  and  specimens  they  took  a  highly  informing 
interest,  Andrew  Harben  said. 


244       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

They  knew  a  good  deal  about  natural  history  in 
their  own  way,  and  they  gave  him  spiders  and  adders 
and  things  like  that,  very  nice  and  all  particular  dead 
ly.  One  day  they  took  him  into  the  jungle  and  intro 
duced  him  to  a  caterpillar  that  drops  off  the  trees  on 
you  so  its  hairs  stick  in  your  skin.  Andrew  Harben 
was  swelled  with  pride  at  this  invention.  But  that 
night  the  poison  festered  and  he  swelled  in  another 
manner.  He  had  sense  enough  to  lock  himself  in  the 
shack  so  at  to  keep  from  jumping  in  the  drink  when 
the  fever  took  him.  Those  caterpillars  very  near  fin 
ished  Andrew  Harben,  but  he  managed  to  keep  the 
lights  going  and  the  Bugis  came  around  to  call  next 
morning  so  kind  and  sympathetic.  They  were  most 
neighborly,  the  Bugis. 

"  Ya  -  ya,"  they  said,  which  was  Dutch  in  a  fashion 
and  meant  Anything  you  like  —  such  as  buck  up,  old 
scout;  the  worst  is  yet  to  come. 

They  told  him  about  a  harmless  snake  that  carried 
a  superfluous  or  third  eye  in  its  back.  He  went  hunt 
ing  that  curious  snake  and  found  it,  but  he  didn't  like 
the  looks  of  its  head.  It  had  a  broad  head  with  a 
button  on  the  neck  that  might  or  might  not  have  been 
an  eye.  Of  course  he  could  not  doubt  when  old  Allo 
and  all  his  seven  sons  assured  him  positively  that  the 
snake  was  safe  as  a  tame  kitten.  But  just  for  luck  he 
grabbed  it  cautious  and  gave  it  a  glass  tube  to  chew 
on  while  he  pressed  the  button. 

"  Ya  -  ya !  "  said  the  tribe  —  meaning  who  so  sur 
prised  as  them  —  and  when  Andrew  Harben  came  to 
examine  the  tube  he  found  enough  venom  to  kill  forty 
men,  which  was  doing  pretty  well  for  one  harmless 
little  snake.  .  .  . 

Yes,  business  was  good,  but  pretty  soon  he  had  to 
worry  about  his  wicks  again.  The  socks  were  about 
used  up,  and  socks  never  give  a  good  light  anyhow, 
Andrew  Harben  said.  He'd  been  raveling  off  his 


THE   WICKS   OF   MACASSAR  245 

pants  for  more  splices  until  he  blushed  to  look  at  him 
self.  This  was  painful  to  his  modesty  but  worse  for 
his  comfort,  account  of  giving  up  so  much  protec 
tion.  Every  time  he  stripped  off  another  inch  of  pant 
leg  he  opened  up  new  territory  for  the  insects  which 
took  to  his  bare  limbs  quite  joyous. 

Andrew  Harben  began  to  wonder  where  it  would 
end  and  what  he  would  do  when  he  had  no  more  pants 
to  ravel.  The  way  these  lights  burned  up  wicks  was 
scandalous,  and  the  tender  wasn't  due  back  for  more 
than  a  week  yet.  He  tried  to  get  help  from  the  Bugis, 
but  he  couldn't  seem  to  make  them  understand.  They 
didn't  carry  socks  themselves,  nor  pants  neither,  nor 
much  of  anything  but  their  long  hair  which  they  wore 
braided  in  a  kind  of  club  behind. 

"Am  I  a  scientist?"  said  Andrew  Harben.  "And 
can  I  not  wrest  the  answer  I  need  from  nature  her 
self?" 

It  cheered  him  up  a  lot  to  think  of  it  that  way.  He 
remembered  how  other  investigators  had  conde 
scended  to  useful  discoveries  like  imitation  shoe  but 
tons  and  synthetic  doormats  and  Kennebunk  sealskins. 

"  I  will  find  a  new  material  for  lamp  wicks,"  he  said, 
"  thus  endearing  myself  to  posterity  as  well  as  saving 
the  lives  of  the  merchant  marine." 

So  he  tested  all  manner  of  strange  stuff  in  a  most 
scientific  manner,  like  coir  and  palm  fibers  and  grape 
vines  and  corn  silk.  But  it  wasn't  any  use.  He 
couldn't  get  anything  that  would  sop  up  oil  and  hold 
a  light  for  half  a  minute. 

He  was  still  cussing  his  luck  and  thinking  hard 
things  of  science  when  the  Allo  family  showed  up 
with  a  piece  of  news  that  made  him  forget  all  the  rest 
in  a  hurry.  It  seems  they  had  located  a  flying  frog  in 
the  depths  of  the  jungle  somewhere. 

Now  few  people  have  ever  seen  the  flying  frog  of 


246       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

Borneo,  and  those  who  have  are  called  nasty  names  by 
those  who  haven't.  It  wears  a  skin  web  between  its 
fore  and  hind  legs  and  is  most  rare.  Andrew  Harben 
was  grateful  because  here  he  saw  his  big  chance  for 
fame.  He  would  pickle  the  beast  and  write  a  book 
about  it  to  make  the  university  professors  and  the 
magazine  writers  sit  up.  And  maybe  if  the  statements 
were  tough  enough  and  somebody  attacked  him  for 
a  nature  faker  he  might  get  the  use  of  half  a  dozen 
new  letters  to  the  hind  end  of  his  name. 

So  he  went  out  with  the  Allo  tribe  once  again  and 
they  led  him  up  a  creek  to  the  place  where  the  flying 
frog  lives.  Sure  enough  there  was  a  frog;  he  saw  it 
quite  clear.  He  only  had  to  hop  across  on  a  log  and 
take  it  in  his  little  net.  He  hopped  and  the  log  turned 
under  him,  as  was  likely  it  woud,  being  no  log  at  all 
but  a  most  monstrous  great  alligator.  Andrew  Harben 
went  overboard,  and  the  Bugis  raised  a  yell. 

"  Ya  -  ya !  "  they  said,  meaning  here's  fun. 

But  Andrew  Harben  could  dive  as  well  as  an  alli 
gator,  which  he  did  and  got  away  downstream.  This 
was  the  first  time  he  could  be  thankful  about  his  pants. 
They  were  now  no  bigger  than  a  swimming  suit,  and 
he  struck  out  with  great  speed  and  finally  reached 
shore  below  with  the  loss  of  nothing  but  one  shoe, 
which  the  alligator  did  not  like. 

Going  back  alone  through  the  jungle,  he  lost  his  way 
and  along  toward  evening  what  should  he  do  but 
stumble  plump  on  the  whole  nest  of  Allos  where  they 
lived.  This  was  a  place  highly  interesting  to  an  in 
vestigator  and  would  have  been  even  more  so  to  the 
little  gunboats  of  different  flags  that  police  the  sea. 
It  was  no  hut  but  a  proper  palace,  with  a  stockade  and 
towers  and  flagpoles  all  complete  and  every  blessed 
thing  about  it  snaffled  off  some  ship  or  other. 

He  saw  strakes,  beams,  keelsons,  masts,  rigging,  and 


THE   WICKS   OF   MACASSAR  247 

cabin  doors  enough  to  build  a  fleet  with;  and  the 
windows  were  ports  and  the  chimneys  all  funnels. 
The  women  were  cooking  dinner  in  pots  made  of  ship's 
bells  turned  upside,  and  they  were  dressed  in  yards 
and  yards  of  Chinese  silks  all  watered  impromptu  by 
sea  water,  and  lace  curtains  from  some  captain's  berth 
and  various  other  flotsam  while  the  little  children  tod 
dled  around  in  American  flour  bags.  Yes,  those  Allos 
could  wear  plenty  of  garments  when  they  were  home, 
which  was  good  manners,  but  more  particular  indi 
cated  they'd  collected  so  much  wealth  they  didn't 
know  what  else  to  do  with  it. 

There  were  two  great  carver  figureheads  guarding 
the  gate,  and  Andrew  Harben  even  saw  the  name 
under  one  of  them,  a  most  calm  and  beautiful  white 
face  looking  down  on  this  rascal  crew.  Witch  of 
Dundee  it  said.  And  where  was  the  Witch  of  Dundee 
now,  and  where  all  the  hearty  men  which  sailed  with 
her?  Gone  down  in  Macassar  long  since.  Here  were 
her  bones,  what  was  left,  and  for  theirs  the  monkeys 
would  be  rolling  them  on  the  mud  flats  at  low  tide.  .  .  . 

Well,  Andrew  Harben  saw  these  things  and  he  un 
derstood  quick  enough  that  the  kindly  Bugis  were 
no  more  than  wreck  pirates  who  drove  a  rich  trade 
whenever  for  any  good  and  sufficient  reason  the  light 
failed.  They  must  have  been  at  it  for  years,  very 
quiet  and  cautious  so  the  keepers  would  have  plenty 
of  time  to  go  mad  and  get  eaten  by  the  crocodile,  as 
the  skipper  said.  Of  course  they  would  not  kill  the 
keepers  in  any  uncrafty  way  lest  the  news  should  get 
out  and  spoil  their  graft,  and  a  white  man  with  a 
spear  through  him  is  hard  to  keep  secret  underground 
in  any  native  country. 

However,  they  would  have  made  an  exception  of 
Andrew  Harben.  They  spied  him  standing  there  in 
the  dusk,  and  they  knew  their  game  was  up  unless 
they  nailed  him.  They  chased  him  hard  through  the 


248       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

swamps,  but  he  gave  them  the  slip  and  reached  home 
a  jump  ahead.  They  were  not  anxious  to  follow  while 
he  could  sweep  the  bridge  with  his  fowling  piece  and 
so  they  stood  on  the  shore  and  howled. 

"  Ya  -  ya  ! "  they  said,  meaning  damn  him. 

Andrew  Harben  was  the  angry  man.  He'd  been 
pretty  much  fed  up  with  natural  history  by  this  time. 
About  everything  that  flew  or  crawled  in  Borneo  had 
sampled  him,  and  he  was  bit  and  stung  all  over. 
Meanwhile  he  considered  the  wickedness  of  these 
Bugis  that  had  been  carrying  on  serial  murder  here  all 
unbeknownst  and  how  nearly  they  had  added  him  to 
the  score  by  playing  him  for  a  scientist  and  a  sucker. 
And  he  considered  too  that  he  was  now  shut  off  from 
all  help  in  the  matter  of  the  lights  and  what  a  respon 
sibility  of  life  and  property  rested  on  him  to  keep  them 
going. 

"  When  I  thought  of  that,"  he  said,  telling  me, 
" —  when  I  thought  of  that  I  jumped  up  and  fired  into 
the  trees  till  the  gun  was  too  hot  to  hold.  Curse  'em 
D'you  know  I  had  to  take  what  was  left  of  my  pants 
to  patch  up  the  wicks  that  night?" 

He  would  have  given  all  the  honorary  letters  of  the 
alphabet  for  the  use  of  a  rifle,  but  he  might  have 
saved  his  rage,  for  the  Bugis  minded  bird  shot  not  at 
all.  They  only  danced  in  the  mangroves  and  mocked 
him.  "  Ya  -  ya !  "  they  said,  which  meant  they'd  get 
him  yet.  .  .  . 

He  began  to  think  so  himself  the  next  day  when 
his  water  ran  out.  The  tender  was  due  in  three  more 
days.  He  thought  his  wicks  might  last  that  long,  with 
nursing.  But  he  would  be  dead  a  dozen  times  over 
with  thirst. 

After  a  blazing  torture  along  toward  evening  he 
couldn't  stand  it  any  more.  The  woods  were  quiet 
and  there  was  just  a  chance  that  the  enemy  were  nap 
ping.  He  took  a  pail  and  sneaked  ashore  over  his 


THE   WICKS   OF   MACASSAR  249 

bridge  to  the  water  barrel  under  the  mangroves  that 
they  had  always  kept  filled  for  him.  It  seemed  they 
must  have  forgot  to  cut  off  supplies  —  the  barrel  was 
brimming.  He  drunk  a  pailful  on  the  spot  and  started 
back  with  another,  —  and  he  got  as  far  as  his  shack 
before  he  collapsed,  all  curled  up  in  knots  quite  pic 
turesque.  Those  simple  Bugis  had  dosed  the  water 
with  a  native  drug  made  from  the  klang  berry. 

Now,  it  is  a  singular  thing  about  klang,  as  Andrew 
Harben  told  me,  that  it  will  mostly  kill  a  brown  man 
and  seldom  a  white,  but  if  it  does  not  it  sends  him 
crazy.  By  that  he  meant  crazy  in  the  Malay  way, 
which  is  quite  different.  The  klang  did  not  kill 
Andrew  Harben.  It  laid  him  cold  at  first,  and  for 
many  hours  he  lay  without  sense  or  speech. 

When  he  came  to  he  was  stretched  in  a  corner  of 
the  shack.  The  cupola  overhead  was  dark  and  the 
shack  was  dark  except  for  one  tiny  dish  lamp  on  the 
floor,  and  around  and  about  squatted  the  tribe  of  Allo 
having  a  high  old  time. 

They  were  naked,  being  hopeful  of  a  chance  to 
swim  before  the  night  was  done,  and  they  smelt  like 
swine.  A  big  wind  was  raising  in  the  Strait  and  the 
waves  roared  and  bubbled  underneath  among  the  piles 
while  the  Bugis  watched  for  results.  By  way  of  keep 
ing  their  patience  they  were  at  the  pickle  bottles,  being 
hindered  not  at  all  by  the  curious  specimens  therein 
and  highly  pleased  with  the  alcohol.  It  is  another 
singular  thing  that  if  klang  was  not  made  for  a  white 
man  alcohol  was  never  made  for  a  brown. 

Andrew  Harben  roused  up  in  the  corner  where  they'd 
chucked  him,  meaning  to  feed  him  to  the  usual  alliga 
tor  for  breakfast.  He  saw  them  sitting  there  and 
celebrating  so  very  joyful,  and  he  saw  something  else. 
Through  the  smother  off  to  windward  toward  Celebes 
he  saw  the  twinkle  of  at  least  two  ships  standing  off 


250       WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 

most  bewildered  and  marked  for  their  graves 
among  the  reefs  and  currents  they  couldn't  place. 
These  ships  were  going  down  to  his  account  because 
his  lights  were  out.  And  meanwhile  the  Bugis  were 
sitting  around  and  tearing  up  the  lantern  wicks. 

Yies,  that  was  just  what  they  were  doing.  They  had 
took  out  the  wicks  so  there  should  be  no  more  light 
that  night  at  any  price.  They  had  snaffled  the  poor 
little  shreds  that  Andrew  Harben  had  made  at  the 
expense  of  decency  —  his  wicks,  his  precious  wicks! 
They  tossed  the  strands  about,  and  the  wind  snatched 
them  away  inland  into  howling  space,  and  the  Bugis 
laughed. 

"  Ya  -  ya !  "  they  said,  which  means  good  business. 

Andrew  Harben  rose  up  all  so  quietly  in  his  corner. 
Did  I  tell  you  he  was  a  fine,  big  man?  He  was,  and 
they  were  also  eight  fine,  big  men  —  old  Allo  and  his 
seven  sons.  Before  they  noticed,  he  was  able  to  reach 
his  shotgun.  It  was  empty,  but  he  wanted  nothing, 
only  the  barrels,  which  furnished  a  short  and  very 
hefty  clubf.  What  happened  after  that  nobody  can 
say  exactly.  Which  perhaps  is  just  as  well,  for  it 
could  not  have  been  a  pretty  thing  to  see.  But  An 
drew  Harben,  who  was  crazed  with  klang,  ran  amuck 
among  the  Bugis,  who  were  crazed  with  alcohol,  and 
most  queer  were  the  doings  in  the  lighthouse  by  Ma 
cassar.  And  when  morning  came  there  was  no  wreck 
in  that  strait. 

"  So  you  have  not  got  mad,"  said  the  half-caste 
skipper  when  he  climbed  up  to  the  shack  in  the  smoky 
dawn  two  days  ahead  of  time.  Then  Andrew  Harben 
came  out  to  meet  him  wearing  few  impediments  to 
speak  of  and  not  much  skin  either ;  so  he  added : 
"  Anyways,  you  have  not  been  eats  by  z'  crocodile." 

"  No,"  said  Andrew  Harben,  all  unashamed. 

"  Zat  iss  awright,  but  my  God  why  did  you  not  show 
your  light  till  midnight  ?  "  asked  the  skipper.  "  I  tell 


THE   WICKS    OF    MACASSAR  251 

you  I  was  out  zere  last  night  and  z'  light  wass  dark 
and  z'  devil  walking  abroad  on  z'  waters.  Almost, 
almost  we  went  ashore  with  zese  dam  currents.  But 
just  as  we  would  run  on  z'  Poi  Laut  reef  you  lit  up 
again.  Not  one  little  minute  too  soon  did  you  show 
z'  light?  Why  iss  zis?" 

"  I  lost  my  wicks ! "  said  Andrew  Harben,  quite 
cool. 

"  Loze  z'  wicks  ?  "  shouted  the  skipper.  "  For  why 
have  you  lose  z'  wicks?  Did  you  find  zem  again?" 

"  Come  and  see,"  said  Andrew  Harben. 

He  took  the  skipper  into  the  shack  where  the  lights 
in  the  cupola  were  still  burning  broad  and  yellow. 
They  were  eight  in  number,  as  I  said,  and  no  man 
ever  saw  the  like  of  them  before  nor  will  again.  For 
every  light  there  hung  a  Bugis  from  the  iron  frame 
work  by  the  long  hair  of  his  head.  One  lock  of  his 
hair  held  him  up.  The  rest  was  twisted  into  a  cue 
and  looped  so  that  it  floated  in  the  oil  tub  and  then 
passed  through  a  burner. 

By  the  hand  of  Andrew  Harben  that  did  it,  those 
eight  Bugis  were  the  wicks  of  Macassar  that  kept  the 
strait  clear! 

Meanwhile  Andrew  Harben  went  whistling  about 
his  work,  climbing  around  the  frame  and  trimming 
all  so  careful  and  moving  the  thumbscrews  a  bit  here 
and  there  and  ladling  oil  in  a  gourd  to  keep  the  flow 
rising  well. 

"  I  have  made  a  remarkable  discovery,"  he  said. 
"  It  is  a  fact  in  nature  that  human  hair  can  be  used 
for  a  lamp  wick.  Of  course  you  have  to  keep  wetting 
it,  for  hair  will  not  draw  oil  fast  enough  by  capillary 
action.  But  it  serves.".  .  . 

The  skipper  looked  at  the  Bugis  and  looked  around 
at  the  broken  pickle  bottles  and  the  scattered  specimen 
cases  and  the  other  remnants,  and  the  skipper  under- 


252       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

stood  partly,  being  a  highly  intelligent  man  for  a  half- 
caste. 

'  'Zis,"  he  said,  "  zis  is  mos'  natural.  Only  it  iss  no 
good  for  'istory.  You  will  never  write  z*  natural 
'istory  of  your  great  discovery,  my  friend,  because  it 
is  too  dam  natural  for  anybody  to  believe." 

And  he  said  true,  and  that's  why  I'm  telling  you  the 
story  free  gratis  as  Andrew  Harben  told  it  to  me, 
which  you  may  write  yourself  if  you  got  the  nerve. 
Andrew  Harben  he'll  tell  you  the  same  if  you  find  him 
hammering  rust  by  the  Cape  Town  breakwater.  He's 
all  right  now,  but  for  a  long  time  after  they  took  him 
away  from  Borneo  he  was  just  a  little  peculiar  one 
way.  It  wasn't  bugs  nor  snakes  nor  natives  nor  any 
such  vermin  that  excited  him,  though  you  might  think 
so.  No,  he  was  cured  of  all  that.  But  whenever  he 
chanced  to  see  a  lamp  anywhere  that  was  carelessly 
tended,  spattering  or  smoking  and  the  flame  burning 
low  and  foul,  then  Andrew  Harben  would  begin  to 
carry  on. 

"  Ya  -  ya !  "  he  would  yell,  meaning  why  the  devil 
don't  you  trim  your  wicks? 

Which,  when  you  think  of  it,  was  no  more  than 
natural,  as  the  skipper  said. 


DOUBLOON  GOLD 

I  REMEMBERED  the  big  chap  with  the  China- 
blue  eyes  and  the  great  mop  of  tangled  fair  hair. 
I  had  seen  him  one  night,  a  month  or  so  before, 
at  Monte  Carlo,  where  he  wound  up  a  run  against  the 
red  by  snapping  the  sovereigns  off  his  cuff  links.  And 
here,  in  the  Casino  Pavao,  at  Funchal,  I  remarked  him 
in  almost  the  identical  gesture.  He  fumbled  through 
all  his  pockets  before  he  found  and  tossed  out  upon  the 
board  a  goldpiece,  broad  and  ruddy  as  his  own  open- 
air  face.  Now,  as  then,  I  saw  him  summon  his  last 
reserve  for  a  final  plunge.  The  coin  fell  on  manque, 
and  there  he  let  it  lie. 

We  were  in  charge  of  a  highly  superior  banker  at 
that  table  —  a  model  banker,  a  window  model  of  a 
banker,  with  spade-cut  beard,  jet  brows,  waxen  face, 
and  perfectly  faultless  armor  of  full  dress.  Through 
out  the  evening  he  had  been  spinning  the  wheel  and 
shooting  the  little  marble  along  its  saucer  rim  with  the 
detached  regularity  of  an  automaton.  But  when  this 
strange  token  dropped  shimmering  beside  him  he  stood 
like  one  transfixed,  then  bent  over  to  stare,  and  pres 
ently  passed  a  signal  to  the  fat  croupier  across  from 
him.  And  both  of  them  stared  at  the  thing,  which 
shone  like  a  full  moon  on  the  smooth  green  pool  of 
the  table. 

I  was  not  so  sure  of  the  rest.  But  it  seemed  to  me 
that  a  sudden  flame  lighted  their  professionally  indif 
ferent  eyes,  that  the  spark  of  some  swift  excitement 
leaped  between  them.  I  say  I  could  not  be  sure,  be 
cause  I  was  tiptoe  with  eagerness  myself. 

Nobody  else  was  paying  any  noticeable  attention  to 

253 


254       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

the  big  gambler  or  to  his  fortunes.  A  silent  crowd 
jostled  stiffly  about  the  board,  three  deep,  unmindful 
of  the  heat,  the  puddled  air,  the  aching  blue-white 
lights  —  a  cosmopolitan  crowd,  such  as  one  finds  in 
the  season  at  a  minor  crossroads  like  Madeira,  where 
types  are  varied,  if  not  extreme. 

There  was  the  English  invalid  contingent,  of  course 
—  the  prop  and  frigid  corrective  of  so  many  subtropi 
cal  resorts;  and  the  local  social  element,  dark,  dapper 
and  Portuguese,  playing  a  wary  and  penurious  stake; 
and  the  casual  commercial,  chiefly  Teuton,  playing 
high  and  stolidly ;  and  the  whole  hodgepodge  of  chance 
tourists  from  the  steamers  in  port — South  Americans, 
South  Africans,  lean  and  yellowish  administrators 
from  the  West  Coast,  one  or  two  frock-coated  Arabs 
with  the  fez,  Spaniards  from  Canary,  and  Hebraic 
gentlemen  from  the  ends  of  the  earth.  In  short,  a 
Casino  crowd,  solely  intent  upon  the  game,  and  re 
strained  from  any  common  human  sentiment  like  curi 
osity  by  its  own  multiplied  strangeness. 

And  I  rejoiced  that  this  was  so;  for  I  desired  no 
competition,  and  I  meant  to  get  that  big  gambler's  big 
goldpiece,  one  way  or  another. 

"  Faites  vos  jou'!"  The  banker  had  recovered  suf 
ficiently  to  make  his  spin,  droning  with  guttural  accent 
the  familiar  phrase:  "Faites  vos  jou',  mess'h!" 

I  suppose  every  traveler  likes  to  esteem  himself 
rather  a  dab  at  collecting.  How  else  account  for  the 
populations  that  live  by  the  sale  and  the  manufacture 
of  assorted  relics?  I  had  lugged  a  bag  of  ancient  coins 
half  round  the  world,  and  I  desperately  wanted  that 
particular  coin,  so  large,  so  curious  —  and  genuine  — 
being  offered  as  a  bet.  But  there  was  something  more 
to  my  temptation. 

The  day  had  been  tinged  for  me  with  the  charm  and 
color  of  this  Old  World  island  town,  lying  like  a  flower 
wreath  on  a  mailed  breast,  with  its  rioting  gardens,  its 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  255 

twining  streets,  its  grim  basalt  barriers  and  savage 
beaches.  I  felt  the  lure  of  authentic  adventure  in  pur 
suing  such  a  memento,  a  goldpiece  possibly  historic, 
stamped  with  the  flourish  of  dead  kings.  One  has  the 
sense  at  times  of  spying  from  ambush  upon  a  promise 
of  emprise  and  some  great  gain.  It  is  the  glamour  of 
things,  a  magic  flush  on  dull  and  sordid  fact.  It  starts 
up  anyhow,  at  a  face,  a  whisper,  a  strain  of  music  —  a 
stock  quotation.  True,  in  the  present  state  of  a  fallen 
world  it  often  proves  counterfeit  —  and  expensive,  too 
often.  But  what  of  that?  One  follows  still;  if  only 
for  the  sake  of  the  story.  .  .  . 

"  Faites  vos  jou'!"  advised  the  banker,  who  himself 
presided  over  romantic  possibilities  at  a  dollar  a  throw. 

By  the  judicious  use  of  an  elbow  I  worked  my  way 
through  the  press.  There  fell  the  usual  interval  of 
suspense  while  the  marble  circled  low.  It  gave  me  my 
chance  to  lean  over  the  shoulder  of  the  big  gambler, 
who  sat  glowering  and  expectant,  and  to  murmur  in 
his  ear. 

"  I'll  take  it  up  for  ten  pounds,"  I  offered. 

He  nodded,  without  so  much  as  looking  at  me;  and 
I  dropped  five  American  eagles  besides  his  stake.  .  .  . 

"  Rien  ne  va  plus! " 

But  I  had  already  effected  my  exchange;  and  I 
snatched  away  the  big  goldpiece  just  as  the  marble 
struck,  hopped,  and  rattled  into  a  socket. 

"  Vint  e  uno"  announced  the  banker,  surprised  into 
his  own  native  tongue ;  and  I  caught  the  unmistakable 
quiver  of  a  live  disappointment  as  his  glance  crossed 
mine  with  the  flash  of  a  knifeblade. 

The  gambler  waited  until  a  silver  rake  had  swept 
away  his  eagles.  With  a  visible  effort,  then,  he  braced 
himself  against  the  table  and  rose.  He  turned  to  me, 
met  my  smirk  of  triumph  with  a  frown,  and  plowed 
out  of  the  throng  to  the  natural  refuge,  the  little  bar- 


256       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

room  on  the  terrace  side,  where  I  followed  him  quite 
shamelessly. 

The  hour  was  early;  we  had  the  place  to  ourselves 
as  we  pledged  each  other  in  the  quaint  device  they 
call  a  cocktail  at  the  Pavao. 

"  You  made  a  good  bargain,"  he  said,  setting  down 
his  glass.  "  There  must  be  at  least  twenty-five  dol 
lars'  worth  of  pure  gold  in  that  slug  if  there's  a  penny 
—  let  alone  its  curio  value." 

His  manner  had  a  rough  edge.  Any  one  who  has 
lost  over  the  green  cloth  knows  the  spleen  it  can  raise 
against  all  reason.  I  was  the  better  pleased  next  in 
stant  when  he  broke  through  with  a  smile  of  sound 
good  nature: 

"  Here's  hoping  it  brings  you  better  luck  than  mine." 

I  liked  that  smile,  and  the  voice,  easy  and  true  as  a 
bell,  and  the  whole  hearty,  big-boned  cast  of  him ;  and 
I  marveled  what  twist  had  made  a  splendid  great  fel 
low  like  this,  with  his  arching  chest  and  walking-beam 
breadth  of  shoulder,  the  hanger-on  at  unhealthy  gam 
ing  rooms.  He  was  neither  old  nor  young  enough  to 
be  merely  foolish.  Forty  would  be  about  his  age,  I 
judged;  but  his  eyes  were  new,  like  those  of  a  child, 
and  the  only  marks  about  them  were  the  little  sun 
crinkles  of  outdoor  living. 

"  You  were  willing  to  sell,"  I  reminded  him  with  a 
half  query. 

"  Of  course !  "  he  nodded.  "  When  the  game  gets 
me  running  I'd  stake  my  shoes  if  I  could  sell  'em.  And 
ten  pounds  was  more  than  the  bank  would  have  paid. 
All  the  same,  you've  got  a  rare  piece,  cheap." 

"Just  what  have  I  got?" 

"A  doubloon  —  don't  you  know?  One  of  those 
queer  Portuguese  cart  wheels.  Sink  it !  I  made  sure 
I'd  found  a  lucky  at  last  —  anybody  would." 

I  echoed  that  glorious  old  word : 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  257 

"A  doubloon?" 

"Aye!"  He  smiled  again.  "Pieces  of  eight  — 
what?  The  pirates  used  to  cut  throats  for  'em." 

On  sudden  impulse  I  risked  a  small  experiment. 

"  I've  no  wish  to  profit  by  your  misfortune,"  I  said. 
"This  is  evidently  very  valuable.  .  .  .  Call  the  ten 
pounds  a  loan." 

He  glanced  at  the  coin  as  I  laid  it  before  him ;  and 
then,  with  a  widening  of  pupil,  at  me.  I  was  startled 
to  see  him  hesitate. 

"No,"  he  decided.  "No.  But  look  here,  that's 
decent  of  you.  I  will  say  it's  downright  decent." 

"  Not  at  all,"  I  protested  virtuously.  "  It  might  be 
worth  many  times  what  I  paid  you." 

"  That  wouldn't  worry  me." 

But  something  was  worrying  him  as  he  frowned 
down  at  the  golden  disk.  I  felt  a  trouble  on  the  man 
that  bit  deeper  than  his  losses.  He  had  an  odd,  abrupt 
trick  of  passing  a  hand  hard  over  his  brow  as  if  to 
brush  away  some  constant  irritation,  a  gesture  at  once 
naive  and  passionate.  At  such  times  he  looked  about 
him  with  an  uneasy  air,  puzzled  and,  I  could  almost 
say,  resentful. 

"  You  must  be  very  much  attached  to  the  thing,"  I 
persisted. 

He  slid  it  back  to  me  brusquely,  with  a  jab  of  his 
forefinger. 

"Thanks.  Would  you  mind  putting  it  out  of 
sight?" 

We  were  sitting  at  one  of  the  small  tables  that  lined 
the  side  of  the  little  room.  It  so  chanced  that  I  sat 
facing  the  bar,  which  was  not  a  proper  bar  at  all  but 
a  long,  low  sideboard,  whereon  an  attendant  com 
pounded  drinks.  My  new  friend  was  at  my  left  and 
thus  failed  to  see  what  now  I  saw  —  a  detached  head 
glaring  out  of  the  wall,  sharp  and  definite  as  a  cameo. 
I  was  slow  to  connect  this  singular  phenomenon  with 


258       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

a  strip  of  mirror  over  the  sideboard  and  regarded  it 
merely  with  wonder,  for  the  face  was  very  much  alive, 
convulsed  and  eager.  Tardily,  then,  I  recognized 
the  jet  spadebeard  of  the  superior  banker,  and  at  the 
same  moment  felt  a  hot  breath  stirring  in  my  back 
hair. 

"  Hello ! "  I  exclaimed,  and  spun  around  in  time  fur 
ther  to  recognize  a  pair  of  perfect  coat  tails ;  they  were 
just  disappearing  through  the  doorway  into  the  salle 
behind  me. 

He  could  not  have  had  ten  seconds'  start,  but  when 
I  reached  the  doorway  the  fellow  had  vanished  in  a 
fringe  of  bystanders.  Another  banker,  bald-headed 
and  not  in  the  least  superior,  was  now  in  charge  at 
roulette,  and  I  noticed  that  the  fat  croupier  had  also 
been  replaced. 

I  turned  back  to  the  attendant  at  the  bar,  a  pop-eyed 
nondescript  in  a  white  jacket. 

"  Who  was  that?  "  I  demanded  indignantly.  "  Who 
is  that  man,  and  what  the  devil  did  he  mean  by  blow 
ing  down  the  back  of  my  neck  ?  " 

He  stared  at  me,  with  fluttering  lids,  chalk-faced  — 
I  was  to  appreciate  presently  what  terror  rode  that 
obscure  soul. 

"  Ndo  compriendo"  he  stammered,  though  I  had 
heard  him  use  good-enough  English  of  a  sort  in  wheed 
ling  for  tips.  Impatient  at  his  stupidity  and  my  own 
jumpy  nerves,  I  flung  away  from  him  —  or,  rather,  I 
started  to  fling  and  was  halted  there  in  my  tracks.  .  .  . 

Now  the  contact  of  a  revolver  is  something  that  no 
man  need  be  taught  to  identify.  It  is  a  part  of  in 
stinctive  knowledge.  When  a  hard  blunt  nose  snug 
gled  suddenly  under  my  lowest  rib  I  required  no  ver 
bal  order  to  make  me  stand  quite  passive  and  obedient. 
So  I  did  stand,  while  still  mechanically  resisting  the 
furtive,  tremulous  fingers  that  came  stealing  round 
my  wrist,  trying  to  force  my  hand  open. 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  259 

I  was  not  half  so  frightened  as  amazed,  and  cer 
tainly  not  half  so  frightened  as  the  creature  himself. 
I  knew  it  must  be  the  wretched  little  attendant  who 
was  tickling  me  with  that  revolver,  and  that  he  was 
trying  to  hold  me  up  for  something  —  what  it  might 
be  I  scarcely  thought.  If  he  had  been  respectable  in 
any  way  through  strength  or  skill  or  personality,  I 
believe  I  might  have  yielded.  But  to  be  robbed  by 
this  miserable  hireling,  this  pop-eyed  dispenser  of  bad 
cocktails,  himself  in  a  state  of  the  most  abject  funk, 
roused  all  the  stubbornness  of  which  I  was  capable. 
As  if  a  sheep  had  assaulted  me ! 

I  suppose  I  should  have  allowed  myself  to  be  shot 
ingloriously  had  not  the  big  gambler  discovered  what 
was  going  on.  In  two  steps  he  was  by  me,  pouched 
the  weapon  with  a  fist  like  a  muff,  and  simply  abol 
ished  Pop-eye.  .  .  . 

"  Easy  now !  "  he  warned  him.  "  Don't  yell !  "  It 
was  an  absurd  anticlimax  to  see  that  bold,  bad  gunman 
being  jammed  upright  to  keep  him  from  falling  in  a 
heap.  "  Reposo  yourself,  matey,  if  you  know  what's 
good.  Be  quiet  —  comprendo  so  much?  Nobody's 
going  to  hurt  you." 

Somehow  I  found  myself  back  at  the  little  table. 
The  gambler  occupied  the  chair  at  my  right  this  time, 
whence  he  could  watch  my  late  enemy,  who  hung  col 
lapsed  over  the  bar.  Except  for  these  trifling  changes, 
the  whole  incident  might  have  seemed  illusion. 

"  What  was  that  for?  "  I  managed  to  ask. 

The  gambler  answered  with  a  negligence  that  struck 
me  in  my  condition  of  mind  like  an  affront: 

"Well,  the  lad's  of  no  importance  —  don't  you  see? 
He  had  to  do  what  he  was  told  and  he  wasn't  up  to 
his  job  —  that's  all.  But  I  thought  we'd  best  keep  him 
in  view.  No  sense  having  him  run  off  to  report." 

"  How  true !  "  I  said  with  a  faint  attempt  at  emula 
tion.  "  One  concedes  the  frivolity  of  having  the  lad 


260       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

run  off  to  report.  After  all,  he  could  only  confess 
that  he  had  failed  to  murder  me.  But  suppose  I  do 
it?" 

"  What  —  complain?  " 

"  It  occurs  to  me  I  might.  I'm  not  vindictive,  but 
I  really  don't  care  for  pistols  with  my  drinks." 

"To  whom?" 

"  Why,  to  the  manager,  I  suppose ;  the  maestro  — 
the  man  who  holds  the  gambling  concession  in  this 
place." 

"  That's  the  johnny  with  the  beard.  He  would 
be  pleased  to  get  a  complaint  from  you ! "  he 
snorted.  "  Why,  it  was  he  who  gave  this  poor  fool 
his  orders !  " 

"  Oh ! "  I  said,  for  lack  of  more  adequate  comment. 

"  And  he,  again,  is  only  a  lesser  devil.  And  if  you 
should  call  the  police,  or  the  military,  or  anybody,  all 
the  way  up  —  the  governor  himself  —  you'd  probably 
find  the  same." 

I  regarded  him  to  know  whether  he  was  serious.  He 
was;  and  his  laconic  method  of  statement  had  an  ex 
traordinary  effect  of  bitterness.  Action  had  lent  him 
relief,  but  the  cloud  of  some  fixed  discontent  dwelt 
in  his  strong  soul.  Even  as  I  watched,  its  shadow  de 
scended  upon  him  again. 

"  From  your  account  they  seemed  prepared  to  spare 
no  pains  in  making  the  visitor  feel  quite  at  home,"  I 
observed  — "  up  to  the  point  of  inducing  him  to  re 
main  permanently.  .  .  .  Was  there  any  other  object 
in  the  recent  attention  to  me,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  You've  got  it  in  your  hand." 

I  unclenched  my  hand  and  sat  blinking  down,  with 
some  astonishment,  at  the  thing  I  had  held  through 
out  and  was  still  holding  —  the  Portuguese  doubloon. 
His  smile  was  grim  this  time. 

"  Pieces  of  eight  —  what?  They  used  to  cut  throats 
for  'em." 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  261 

"  Who  wants  the  thing  so  badly  ?  "  I  asked  square 
ly.  "Who's  after  it?" 

"  Number  One,"  was  his  cryptic  answer. 

"  Number  One !  "  I  cried.    "  Which  Number  One?  " 

"  Do  you  think  I'm  trying  to  mystify  you  ?  "  he  re 
turned  impatiently.  "  Look  here  —  I've  had  that  con 
founded  relic  only  since  yesterday  myself.  They  tried 
these  same  tricks  on  me  until  I  got  tired  and  wrung  a 
little  yellow  viper's  ears  for  him.  .  .  .  Well,  Number 
One  wants  it.  Number  One  is  the  cause,  the  source,  the 
trouble  maker,  for  whose  sake  they  move.  I'm  telling 
you  every  bit  he  could  tell  me  —  just  that:  Number 
One." 

I  drew  a  long  breath.  Adventure  —  romance  ?  The 
most  hardened  realist  must  have  admitted  that  here 
was  a  promisng  lead.  From  the  opened  windows  on 
the  terrace  came  a  stealthy,  sudden  rush  of  rain,  con 
fusing  and  drowning  the  fret  of  the  sea  below.  The 
curtains  flapped  inward  and  we  had  a  whiff  of  the 
island  night,  warm  and  damp,  charged  with  the  heady 
scents  of  lush  vegetation.  Back  in  the  ballroom  they 
were  starting  a  waltz  of  Waldteufel's,  I  think  it  was, 
some  jingly  strain  that  ran  with  the  clink  of  money 
on  the  tables.  A  suitable  setting  for  a  wondrous  tale ; 
but  it  was  borne  upon  me  that  if  I  wished  full  value 
for  my  venture  I  should  have  to  play  up  now,  and  play 
up  sharp. 

This  difficult  man  was  not  the  kind  to  unbuckle 
offhand.  He  was  hardly  what  one  might  call  a  sub 
jective  peddler  of  his  wares.  He  would  not  care  two 
pins  for  my  thrills,  my  quest  of  fancy,  which  to  him, 
in  his  own  heavy  obsession  must  seem  the  most  con 
temptible  trifles. 

With  studied  carelessness  I  took  the  doubloon  on 
my  thumb,  flipped  it  and  stuck  it  in  my  pocket. 

"  No  wonder  you  were  so  willing  to  make  a  trade ! " 


262      WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT  ENDS 

I  said  dryly.    "  One  would  say  the  liabilities  outweigh 

the  assets.     As  they  have  now  descended  to  me,  it 

remains  to  inquire  whether  they  were  honestly  come 

by." 

I  had  caught  him  fairly  out  of  himself.  He  sat  up 
as  if  stung,  seemed  ready  to  retort,  and  then  yielded 
with  a  laugh  —  deep-throated  tribute. 

"  You  want  an  abstract  of  title?  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  I'm  frank  to  say  that's  what  I  wanted 
from  the  first.  I  remembered  you  from  Monte  Carlo, 
you  see." 

With  his  elbows  on  the  table  he  pressed  his  hands 
over  his  eyes  absently,  in  that  singular  mannerism  he 
had ;  and  when  they  were  clear  he  searched  me  again, 
gauging  my  significance  in  some  alien  train  of  thought. 

"  You  seem  entitled  to  it,"  he  acknowledged  slowly, 
"  if  only  by  your  cheek,  you  know.  Please  note  you 
came  asking.  I  shouldn't  care  to  punch  your  head 
later  for  calling  me  a  liar." .  .  . 

And  this  was  the  way  I  won  his  story  at  last. 

"Do  you  happen  to  carry  any  good,  live,  working 
superstitions  about  you  ?  "  he  began,  and  marked  my 
blink  of  surprise.  "  No  ?  It's  a  pity.  Things  must  be 
so  much  simpler  to  a  man  who's  satisfied  to  trust  in 
laws  outside  himself  and  his  own  vision.  A  streak  of 
fatalism,  hey?  What  a  comfort!  No  use  kicking 
about  anything  —  it's  all  been  arranged  for  you.  Or 
astrology,  now:  the  stars  were  in  the  wrong  house, 
which  naturally  accounts  for  Jemmy  Jones  being  in 
the  wrong  pew.  What'o,  there's  warm  cheer  for 
Jemmy ! 

"  Why  are  you  and  I  chumming  here  together  on 
this  hole-in-a-corner  of  an  island,  for  instance,  with  no 
end  of  a  silly  yarn  between  us?  Likely  you'd  much 
rather  be  somewhere  and  doing  something  else  —  I'm 
blessed,  but  I  should.  Yet  here  we  are ;  and  both  our 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  263 

lives,  from  a  world  apart,  have  led  us  up  to  this  very 
minute.  Now  why?  Coincidence  maybe.  Well,  co 
incidence  must  be  worked  a  bit  threadbare  explaining 
things  for  people. 

"  Take  my  own  case :  I  was  born  in  the  Riverina  of 
New  South  Wales,  the  back  lots  —  sheep  country. 
That's  where  I  belong  —  and  look  at  me !  Quite  a  gap 
to  bridge  —  what?  .  .  . 

"  My  father  went  out  there  as  a  jackaroo,  without  a 
penny;  and  before  he  died  he  could  ride  straightaway 
all  day  across  his  own  paddocks.  Nothing  ever  turned 
him  from  his  natural  destiny,  which  was  raising  good 
sheep,  and  plenty  of  'em.  In  twenty  years  I  don't  sup 
pose  he  was  off  the  station  twice;  it  suited  him.  It 
would  have  suited  me  too.  Roving  and  changing  and 
mucking  about  in  crowds  —  no ;  I  was  fed  up  with  that 
when  he  sent  me  away  to  school.  After  his  death  I 
stepped  into  his  place,  of  course,  and  I  never  had  any 
notion  except  to  carry  on  as  he  had  done  before  me 
to  the  end  of  my  billet.  Never  any  notion  up  to  a  day 
about  three  months  ago,  when  there  came  a  cable 
gram  from  England. 

"  Well,  it's  what  I  say  —  a  man  is  better  off  if  he 
has  some  simple  and  handy  system  of  accounting  for 
life.  He  goes  to  bed  in  his  own  private  heaven  and  he 
wakes  up  in  the  general  hell.  And  what's  the  reason? 
There  isn't  any,  unless  you  believe  in  black  cats  or 
astral  influence,  or  the  curse  of  Shielygh —  or  some 
thing. 

"  That  cablegram  was  to  inform  me  that  my  father 
had  left  another  family  back  home.  Previous,  so  to 
speak.  Previous  and  legitimate.  Naturally  every 
thing  he'd  acquired  in  Australia  in  near  half  a  century 
belonged  to  them :  the  stock ;  the  land ;  the  house  I 
was  born  in;  the  very  picture  of  my  mother  on  the 
wall  —  everythng  but  me,  being  an  encumbrance  on 
the  estate.  ...  A  fair  knockout,  wasn't  it?" 


264       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

His  voice  held  the  level  acerbity  that  no  man  with 
a  boy's  eyes  has  any  right  to  know. 

"Did  I  fight?  I  started  to  —  rather!  At  first,  you 
see,  I  didn't  begin  to  understand  what  it  was  had  hit 
me.  I  took  my  two  years'  wages  as  overseer  —  I'd  a 
right  to  that,  at  least  —  and  I  came  on  to  England, 
with  my  comb  over  one  eye,  regularly  scratching  after 
trouble.  And  then  I  found  the  only  people  I  could 
fight  were  three  elderly  gentlewomen  who  lived  to 
gether  on  a  Yorkshire  lane  in  a  little  cottage  covered 
with  climbing  roses.  They  were  most  polite  and  had 
me  in  to  tea ;  and  we  talked  about  something  —  a  sale 
of  work  in  aid  of  the  local  church,  I  think.  ...  At 
that  it  was  rather  heroic  of  them,  you  know;  The 
entertainment  of  a  new  and  unsuspected  half  brother 
—  sinister,  hey?  —  must  present  difficulties  to  the 
maiden  mind. 

"  I  made  none,  of  course.  I  saw  their  solicitor  next 
day  and  helped  straighten  out  his  papers  for  him. 
After  which  I  departed. 

"The  only  thing  I  took  away  was  a  bit  of  family 
history." 

Such  was  his  blunt  way  of  putting  it ;  yet  I  was  not 
so  dull  as  to  miss  a  glimpse  of  what  it  meant,  the 
sacrifice  he  had  made  in  his  bitter  grievance ;  the  true 
and  knightly  spirit  he  must  have  shown  toward  those 
three  innocent  gentlewomen,  so  lightly  and  whimsical 
ly  touched  in  his  narrative. 

At  this  point  he  paused  and  reached  into  the  side 
pocket  of  his  dinner  jacket. 

"  Have  you  seen  the  guidebook  they  sell  about  the 
streets  here,"  he  asked  — "  the  English  Guide  to  Ma 
deira?" 

I  blinked  again  at  the  abrupt  transition,  but  his  hand 
came  away  empty. 

"  Never  mind,"  he  resumed.    "  I'll  show  you  some- 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  265 

thing  presently  to  surprise  you.  Meanwhile  hark  to 
the  family  record: 

"  It  seems  my  people  had  inhabited  their  corner  of 
Yorkshire  time  out  of  mind.  That's  a  common  thing 
enough,  a  rural  line  rooted  deep  in  the  soil.  But,  what 
isn't  so  common,  they've  managed  somehow  to  keep 
the  precious  old  ancestral  name  alive  and  going  — 
from  the  Ark,  perhaps.  Yeoman,  franklin  and  squire, 
as  they  say,  there  is  always  a  Robert  Matcham  above 
ground  somewhere.  Robert  Matcham,  the  descendant 
of  uncounted  Robert  Matchams  —  d'ye  see?  It  was 
my  father's  name,  and  when  he  made  his  break  to 
Australia  the  tradition  was  too  strong  for  him:  he 
never  changed  it  —  which  explains  how  the  solicitor 
came  to  trace  him  at  last.  You'd  hardly  call  it  a  for 
tunate  heirloom;  but  it's  the  only  one  I've  got  —  my 
sole  inheritance  —  for  Robert  Matcham  happens  to 
be  my  name  as  well." 

He  seemed  to  mean  it  as  a  sort  of  introduction,  in 
spite  of  the  discomfortable  irony  of  his  tone. 

"  It's  now  three  months,  as  I  tell  you,  since  Nemesis 
or  Belial  or  coincidence  —  whatever  you  like  —  began 
to  play  this  scurvy  joke  on  me.  It  hasn't  quit  yet. 
To  what  end,  hey?  What's  it  about?  What's  it  damn 
well  for?  Perhaps  that  sounds  like  whining.  Well, 
it's  only  whining  for  a  chance  to  hit  back  at  something 
or  somebody.  Wait  till  you've  been  caught  up  by  the 
scruff  and  cuffed  blind,  as  I've  been,  and  no  place  to 
get  your  teeth  in.  ...  Listen  now : 

"  My  one  idea  was  to  get  a  part  of  what  I'd  lost, 
money  enough  to  buy  a  little  place  of  my  own  away 
there  in  the  bush,  the  only  thing  I  cared  about  or 
knew.  I  needed  a  stake  —  not  much,  just  a  bit  of 
stake.  An  easy  thing  for  an  able-bodied  man,  you'd 
say.  But  could  I  get  it?  Well,  I'm  broke  again  as 
I  sit  here  —  you'll  understand  why  your  suggestion  of 
a  loan  rather  knocked  the  smoke  out  of  me  —  and 


266       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

what   I've   been   through  in   trying   makes   a   pitiful 

comedy. 

"  There  was  a  syndicate  undertook  to  send  me  out 
as  managing  partner  on  its  big  station  in  Victoria. 
They  only  required  a  deposit,  which  I  paid ;  and  when 
I  went  round  for  the  receipt  that  syndicate  had  van 
ished  into  thin  air.  I  found  a  place  with  a  wool  mer 
chant,  who  promptly  failed.  Twice  I  booked  for 
Sydney  on  my  own  —  missed  one  boat  through  a  train 
wreck,  and  the  other  was  libeled  at  the  dockhead.  I 
tried  stowing  away,  and  got  as  far  as  Havre  before 
they  threw  me  off. 

"  Gamble  ?  I  gambled  the  way  another  man  gets 
drunk  —  from  exasperated  craving,  knowing  the  folly 
of  it.  Longchamp,  Enghien,  Monte  Carlo  —  you  fol 
low  my  course?  Once  and  again  I  made  a  winning, 
but  never  quite  enough;  and  finally  Monte  Carlo  left 
me  flat.  You  say  you  saw  me  there  ?  Then  you  know 
how  flat  that  was.  At  Marseilles  I  had  to  ship  for 
mere  bread  on  a  friendly  tramp  going  round  to  Lisbon. 

"  Now  notice  how  a  man  is  made  to  look  like  a 
monkey  on  a  string.  I  didn't  even  know  where  that 
tramp  was  bound  till  she  anchored  in  theTagus.  The 
same  evening  I  got  caught  in  a  monarchist  riot  on  the 
Rocio,  had  the  clothes  torn  off  me  and  landed  in  a 
cell.  They  released  me  next  morning,  with  handsome 
apologies  and  a  coat,  not  so  handsome,  which  they 
said  was  mine.  It  wasn't;  mine  was  gone  to  rags. 
But  in  the  lining  of  the  one  they  gave  me  I  found  two 
Portuguese  bills,  and  something  else:  a  ticket  by  the 
Empreza  Nacional  steamer  sailing  for  Madeira  — 
within  the  hour!  I  took  it.  My  word!  What  else 
was  there  to  do? 

"  You'll  observe  I  never  was  in  Madeira  before  — 
never  meant  or  wanted  to  come  here;  had  hardly 
heard  of  the  isle. 

"  I  landed  yesterday ;  and  perhaps  you  can  guess 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  267 

the  first  thing  I  did  in  a  place  where  horses  are  so 
plenty  and  so  cheap.  Man,  I  was  crazy  to  get  a  saddle 
between  my  knees  again  —  me  that  was  raised  in  a 
saddle.  So  I  hopped  aboard  the  likeliest  nag  and  rode 
for  the  open,  out  the  coast  —  eastward,  it  seems.  Why 
again  should  it  be  eastward?  I  can't  tell  you;  but  it 
was  the  way  that  offered,  winding  along  between  the 
mountains  and  the  sea,  where  the  lava  rocks  prop 
the  sugar  terraces,  black  and  green  in  layers,  and  the 
blue  water  below.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  I  rode  on  for  an  hour  or  more  until  the  path 
led  me  down  to  the  very  edge  of  the  tide,  where  I  had 
rough  going  over  a  cobbled  strand.  At  a  certain  place, 
which  I  need  not  describe,  the  girth  slipped  and  I  had 
to  dismount  to  tighten  it.  And  now,  friend,  I've 
brought  you  into  the  bit  at  last;  and  you  can  draw 
your  own  moral,  for  it  was  there,  standing  almost  in 
the  wash,  as  I  was — " 

He  seemed  to  hesitate  on  the  phrase. 

"You  found  the  doubloon?"  I  finished  for  him. 

"  Winking  up  at  me  from  the  beach  like  a  yellow 
eye ! "  he  roared,  and  his  big  fist  crashed  upon  the 
table  and  dropped  a  silence  between  us.  I  sat  non 
plused. 

"  Nobody  could  blame  you  after  that,"  I  said,  at 
length,  "  for  thinkng  you  had  a  lucky.  As  you  tell 
it,  the  whole  purpose  of  your  Odyssey  was  the  find 
ing  of  that  pocket  piece." 

I  should  have  laughed  —  had  I  not  chanced  to  meet 
his  clear  blue  gaze  fixed  upon  me  with  deadly  candor. 

"  Is  such  your  opinion?"  he  asked. 

"  You  were  certainly  justified  in  backing  the  thing 
for  all  you  were  worth,"  I  answered  lamely. 

"  I  see  I  may  have  to  punch  your  head  after  all." 
He  smiled  quietly.  "  I've  no  skill  to  show  you  how  it 
struck  me;  that's  the  trouble." 

He  reached   into  his  pocket  again  and  this   time 


268       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

brought  out  and  flattened  carefully  before  him,  with 
his  powerful,  deliberate  hands,  a  little  red-bound  pam 
phlet.  "  Then  let  me  show  you  what  I'd  been  reading 
along  the  way." 

I  took  the  pamphlet  from  him  with  expectation  at 
low  ebb.  It  was  the  guidebook  to  Madeira,  a  product 
of  the  local  printer,  I  judged,  thrown  together  to  catch 
the  coppers  of  the  tourist  trade.  I  took  it,  I  say,  rather 
skeptically,  and  glanced  down  the  page  to  which  he 
had  folded;  but  before  I  had  scanned  the  half  a  shock 
went  through  me.  My  incredulity  vanished  like  mist 
in  a  wind.  For  here  is  what  I  read: 

As  for  the  dixovery  of  this  lovely  Island  of  Maderia, 
which  is  indeed  a  glorious  pearl  in  the  sea,  it  was  prob 
able  in  1370;  but  not  by  the  Portuguese,  which  come 
much  later.  The  first  was  dixovered  by  sad  accident  by 
a  lovely,  oldest  legend,  by  an  Englishman  named  Robin  a 
Machin,  Roberto  Machim,  or  Robert  Matcham.  He  was 
brave  lover  of  a  too  beautiful  woman  to  describe,  named 
Anna  d'Arfet,  his  dear  love,  ivhich  he  could  not  marry 
because  the  enterprise  was  not  recommended  by  the  pa 
trons. 

Hizory  teaches  us  these  two  evaded  together  to  estab 
lish  in  France  and  took  shipment  with  a  pilot  captain 
friend  named  Pedro  Morales,  who  was  great  fighting 
pilot  of  Spain.  They  delivered  free  on  board  and  every 
thing  of  best  description,  until  the  ship  ran  against  a 
storm,  zvhich  was  indeed  terrible.  Many  days  they  blow 
where  the  Pilots  could  not  say;  and  after  varied  assort 
ment  of  trouble  they  came  against  this  strange  shore  of 
Maderia  and  all  wrecked.  So  perished  in  each  others 
arms  this  famous  love  story,  which  are  indeed  a  sad  and 
lovely  legend. 

The  pilot  Pedro  Morales  exaped  and  went  away  to 
Portugd,  where  he  told  the  King  about  this  Island.  So 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  269 

it  was  dixovered  again  by  a  navigator  for  the  King,  and 
always  the  populations  since  named  the  place  Machico, 
after  Robert  Matcham  and  Anna  d'Arfet,  which  died 
together  on  the  shore. 

I  had  no  least  desire  left  to  laugh  when  I  had  fin 
ished,  not  even  to  smile  at  the  method  of  the  quaint 
chronicler  through  whose  commercial  phrase  there 
penetrated  such  a  heroic  gusto  of  sentiment.  Again 
and  more  subtly,  more  alluringly,  I  felt  the  presence 
of  that  valid  marvel,  the  delightful  fantasy  of  truth, 
for  which  no  man  ever  quite  outgrows  the  yearning. 
It  was  here,  under  my  hand.  .  .  . 

"Where  did  you  get  this?"  I  demanded. 

"  Bought  it  from  a  hawker  on  the  streets.  Every 
body  buys  'em.  They  tell  you  the  price  of  hammocks 
and  seats  in  the  theater  and  where  to  get  sugar-cane 
brandy  and  '  article  of  native  indus'ry.' " 

"But  it  is  true?" 

"  Quite  true.  Do  you  suppose  I  wouldn't  go  to  the 
municipal  library  and  see?  You'll  find  it  in  all  the 
history  books,  just  as  he  says  there  —  the  local  tra 
dition  about  the  discovery  of  Madeira." 

"And  you  yourself  are  Robert  Matcham!"  I  mur 
mured. 

All  the  excitement  was  on  my  side.  Except  for  his 
single  outcry,  with  the  vivid  flash  of  color  it  had  lent, 
he  betrayed  none.  "  Have  you  chanced  to  examine 
the  coin  yourself  ?  "  he  asked  in  his  level  voice. 

I  felt  a  kind  of  anger  against  him,  that  any  chap  with 
such  a  yarn  should  take  such  an  indifferent  way  to 
spin  it;  and  presently  plucking  out  the  doubloon  and 
holding  it  under  the  lights,  I  came  to  the  crowning 
wonder  of  all. 

It  was  a  rude  bit  of  coinage,  in  size  and  weight  con 
siderably  better  than  a  double  eagle,  of  a  metal  too 
soft  to  have  long  withstood  the  direct  friction  of  the 


270       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

waves.  An  incrusted  discoloration  gave  me  a  hint 
that  it  must  have  lain  well  bedded  down;  the  bright 
scratches  told  what  recent  battering  it  had  suffered 
on  the  rocks.  On  the  reverse  I  made  out  a  coat  of 
arms,  almost  obliterated ;  but  the  obverse  was  clearer. 
It  bore  a  profile  head,  with  the  titles  of  Fernando  I, 
King  of  Portugal,  and  under  that  —  the  date. 

"  Thirteen-seventy,"  I  read ;  and  repeated  aloud  with 
a  gasp :  "  Thirteen-seventy !  Why  —  that's  the  very 
year!" 

He  nodded  slowly. 

"  Do  you  realize  what  this  means?"  I  cried  at  him. 
"  In  the  same  year  this  piece  was  minted  a  man  of  your 
own  name  set  sail  from  England  and  was  lost  on  these 
shores!  ...  It  might  easily  have  come  with  him  — 
the  ship  was  Spanish.  It  probably  did  come  with  him ! 
He  may  have  owned  this  gold;  he  may  have  held  it, 
clinked  it,  gambled  with  it!  And  now  to  be  flung  up 
out  of  the  wreck,  more  than  five  hundred  years  after 
ward,  not  for  the  first  comer  to  find,  not  for  just  any 
body,  but  for  you  —  at  your  feet!  Do  you  get  that?  " 

"It  figures  out  to  fifteen  generations,  doesn't  it?" 
was  all  the  answer  he  made. 

"  And  the  place  —  the  place !  The  book  says  they 
still  call  it  Machico.  Was  it  there  —  is  it  possible  it 
was  there  you  found  the  coin  ?  " 

"  Within  a  stone's  throw  of  the  village  itself." 

I  could  only  stare  at  him. 

"Coincidence  —  what?"  said  Robert  Matcham 
grimly. 

He  folded  up  the  little  book  and  put  it  away  without 
haste,  and  pressed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  again ;  and 
suddenly  the  simplicity  and  passion  of  that  action  hit 
me  like  a  blow.  The  man  was  seething.  Within  the 
stolid  bulk  of  him  lay  pent  a  pit  of  emotion.  He  could 
not  vent  it;  as  he  said  himself,  he  had  no  skill.  But 
I  saw  how  each  casual  word  had  come  molten  from 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  271 

its  source  and  how  immeasurably  that  very  lack  of 
art  had  added  to  its  stark  sincerity. 

I  sat  back  with  a  long  sigh. 

"  Go  on  telling  in  your  own  fashion,  please,"  I 
begged. 

"  There's  little  left  to  tell.  I  was  rather  muddled 
at  first  —  I  don't  know  that  I'm  much  better  now. 
But,  all  the  same,  it  was  stupid  of  me  to  flash  the 
doubloon  when  I  got  back  to  Funchal.  I  didn't  even 
know  what  the  thing  was,  you  see;  and  so  I  asked 
the  first  shopkeeper  with  an  English  sign  at  his  door. 
You  should  have  seen  the  rascal's  eyes  bulge.  .  .  . 

"  It's  clear  enough  I  touched  off  a  regular  blessed 
conspiracy  with  that  coin.  What  it  means  you  can 
guess  as  well  as  I.  I've  had  a  pack  of  penny  detectives 
on  my  trail  ever  since  —  the  maestro  here  was  dog 
ging  me  all  last  night.  I  squeezed  all  I  could  out  of 
one  lad  —  how  their  head  devil  is  called  Number  One. 
And  that's  all  I  know." 

"  But  why  should  they  be  so  eager  after  one  doub 
loon?" 

"  I  don't  believe  they  are  so  eager  after  one  doub 
loon,"  he  answered  with  slow  emphasis. 

"And  what  do  you  propose  to  do  about  it?" 

"  Well,  it's  some  time  since  I  got  any  good  of  pro 
posing  anything  much."  I  saw  the  lean  muscles 
tighten  along  the  jaw.  "  But  I'm  not  dead  yet."  He 
glanced  at  his  watch.  "  It's  now  eleven  o'clock.  I  can 
get  a  horse  up  to  midnight  at  the  hotel.  Before  dawn 
I  propose  to  take  my  morning  plunge  off  the  rocks, 
not  for  from  the  village  of  Machico." 

"Alone?"  I  demanded. 

He  looked  at  me  oddly. 

"  Suppose  you  answer  that  yourself." 

I  sprang  to  meet  his  grip  across  the  table,  and 
thereby  almost  lost  the  use  of  my  fingers. 

"  Come,"  he  said  as  he  rose,  with  his  compelling 


272       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 
smile  on  me;  "you're  about  the  best  coincidence  I've 
met  yet." 

It  was  still  raining  when  we  climbed  into  a  cur 
tained  bullock  sled,  one  of  those  public  conveyances 
that  snatch  the  visitor  over  the  pebbled  streets  of 
Funchal  at  a  slithering  speed  of  two  miles  an  hour. 
The  carro  is  hardly  a  joyous  vehicle  at  the  best  of 
times.  We  sat  in  close  darkness,  oppressed  by  an  at 
mosphere  of  wet  straw  and  leather,  listening  to  the 
mimic  thunder  on  the  roof,  the  gibbering  of  the  yoke 
pin  and  the  wail  of  the  driver,  a  goading  fiend  in  outer 
space.  Possibly  these  melancholy  matters  heightened 
the  dour  mood  of  my  new  friend,  who  stayed  silent. 
To  me  they  were  nothing,  for  I  hugged  myself  in  a 
selfish  content. 

Gold!  It  was  all  gold  —  real  gold  of  romance; 
sunken  treasure ;  mystery ;  legend ;  and  a  most  amazing 
and  veridical  trick  of  Fate  that  had  cast  back  five  cen 
turies —  no  less! 

I  sought  to  conjure  up  that  other  Robert  Matcham 
from  the  lost  past ;  that  "  lover  of  a  too  beautiful 
woman,"  who  ran  across  the  sea  with  his  heart's  desire 
in  the  old  wild  way.  A  bold  and  gallant  figure,  I  was 
pleased  to  fancy ;  an  adventuring  squire  or  swaggering 
free  companion  in  those  red,  rude  times;  a  traveler 
by  the  sword ;  perhaps  a  follower  of  the  Black  Prince 
to  the  Spanish  Wars,  wherein  he  might  have  made 
such  stout  allies  as  the  "  pilot  captain  "  who  served 
him  for  his  flight. 

I  pictured  him  on  the  deck  of  his  tempest-tossed  gal 
ley  against  a  strange  and  savage  coast,  standing 
among  the  hard-lipped  sailors,  with  the  woman  at  his 
side,  facing  death  as  one  of  that  breed  would  know 
how  to  face  it ;  but  defiant,  clinging  to  life  and  to  love 
with  grim  tenacity,  with  a  tremendous  will  to  sur 
vive.  He  would  be  hard  to  kill  —  such  a  man  —  ele 
mental;  desperately  resentful  of  the  mischance.  And 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  273 

I  thought  I  could  almost  fix  the  image  of  him;  and  he 
was  big-bodied,  full-blooded,  with  arching  great  chest 
and  tangled  hair  and  fierce  Saxon  blue  eyes. 

The  carro  drew  up  with  a  sudden  jolt;  the  curtains 
parted  on  a  dazzling  flood  of  light. 

"Would  the  gentlemen  kindly  to  step  down?" 

The  gentlemen  would,  both  somewhat  surprised  at 
having  reached  the  hotel  so  soon,  but  rather  more 
surprised  the  next  moment  at  finding  that  this  was 
not  the  hotel  at  all.  .  .  . 

We  were  in  an  open,  wind-blown  street  on  the 
water  front,  where  the  rain  and  salt  spray  drove  in 
our  faces  and  the  few  lamps  showed  neither  house 
nor  garden.  Beside  the  sea  wall  lay  an  automobile; 
we  could  hear  the  churn  of  its  engine,  and  its  headlight 
split  the  dark  in  a  sharp  wedge  and  threw  a  bright 
zone  against  the  high  stone  embankment  across  the 
road.  Midway,  and  just  before  us,  stood  the  one  who 
welcomed  us  so  suavely. 

It  was  the  roulette  banker,  he  of  the  spade-cut  beard 
and  the  superior  clothes.  He  was  still  superior,  in  a 
topper  that  shone  like  varnish  and  a  long  cape  tucked 
most  jauntily  over  one  arm.  And  he  smiled  and  smiled, 
like  a  villain  downstage  with  the  spot  full  upon  him. 

"  Now  w'ere,"  he  inquired  — "  w'ere  are  that  damn 
doubloon?  " 

He  was  effective  —  the  sartorial  rogue;  and  doubt 
less  he  knew  it.  He  stroked  his  beard  and  thrust  his 
hand  to  his  hip;  and  behind  him  on  the  embankment 
his  huge  shadow  moved  alike,  as  if  some  monstrous 
power  there  was  pulling  puppet  strings  upon 
him. 

"  Gentlemen,  you  been  kidnap ',"  he  was  good 
enough  to  explain.  "  We  are  sorry ;  but  it  was  of  a 
necessitate.  If  you  got  away  with  that  gol'  piece 
you  are  —  'ow  you  say?  —  leaving  us  dished  up. 
Therefore  " —  he  waved  a  ringed  hand  — "  therefore, 


274       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 
we  arrange'  to  'esitate  you  here,  so  nize  and  comfort 
able." 

He  would  have  passed  in  comic  opera  anywhere; 
but  the  dart  of  his  black  eye  was  keen,  his  voice  crisp 
and  assured. 

I  admired  him  —  with  reserve ;  aware  that  we  were 
lost  in  a  strange  city  and  that  this  amiable  brigand 
seemed  to  know  quite  well  what  he  was  about.  Aware 
more  particularly  of  the  forward-drooping  shoulders 
and  lowering  gaze  of  Robert  Matcham. 

I  felt  rather  like  a  man  who  travels  with  a  box  of 
dynamite  —  in  no  position  to  kick  very  hard  at  any 
incidental  pocket  picking  along  the  road. 

"Is  this  a  holdup  or  only  the  request  of  a  loan?" 
I  asked. 

"  We  are  many  enough  to  make  it  whatever  we 
please,"  he  said  with  a  gleam.  "  I  think  maybe  you 
bes'  cal  it  a  public  ex'bition  of  rare  and  valuable 
coins." 

I  thought  so  too.  He  was  not  bluffing.  I  could 
detect  the  scrape  of  feet  all  about  us  in  the  dark.  It 
seemed  to  me  the  one  needful  thing  was  to  bring 
Robert  Matcham  through  in  safety.  I  certainly  did 
not  intend  that  there  should  be  any  explosion  on  my 
behalf  or  for  the  sake  of  any  single  doubloon.  From 
which  considerations  I  made  haste  to  submit  with 
the  best  possible  grace. 

"  Allow  me,"  I  said,  "  to  contribute  to  such  a  worthy 
design." 

Robert  Matcham  took  a  lurching  step,  but  I  caught 
him  by  the  sleeve  and  forestalled  any  other  answer 
by  tendering  my  prize. 

There  was  no  pose  about  the  banker  when  he  grab 
bed  it,  held  it  to  the  light  and  loosed  a  shrill  Portu 
guese  yelp  of  triumph.  The  whole  street  seemed  to 
echo  and  then  fell  as  suddenly  quiet.  It  was  daunt 
ing  to  feel  that  lonely  place  alive  with  unseen  watchers. 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  275 

I  hoped  that  now  they  might  let  us  by ;  but  I  had  not 
understood  their  purpose. 

"  Sir,  I  give  you  kindes'  thanks."  The  banker  was 
bowing,  in  character  again.  "Your  intelligence  are 
only  equal',  I  'ope,  by  that  of  your  frien'.  Jus'  one 
more  little,  so  little  favor." 

He  turned  to  Robert  Matcham  and  held  up  the 
doubloon  between  finger  and  thumb,  so  that  his  eyes 
blazed  over  it  in  the  light;  and  I  knew  then,  with  a 
springing  pulse,  that  the  affair  had  passed  quite  be 
yond  me  and  must  take  its  own  fateful  course. 

"  You  will  inform  us  please  w'ere  you  fin'  this." 

"Me?"  said  Robert  Matcham  with  concentrated 
vehemence.  "  I'll  see  you  fry  in  hell !  " 

The  other's  suavity  fell  away  from  him  like  a  dis 
guise.  His  teeth  showed  white  in  his  beard;  he  ges 
ticulated  and  the  shadow  behind  him  danced  with 
fury. 

"In  'ell!  In  'ell?  Look  out!  Tha's  a  place  — 
tha's  a  place  w'ere  people  speak  out  of  their  mouths 
the  way  they  are  told!  They  make  you  talk  in  'ell, 
mister,  whether  you  like  or  not !  " 

He  controlled  himself  with  a  strong  effort. 

"  Sir,  why  you  should  demand  so  peevish  to  be 
sorry?  You  got  no  business  with  that  coin  —  no;  not 
one  damn  little  affair.  What  does  it  make  to  you? 
Be  nize,  now." 

Robert  Matcham  only  glowered  at  him. 

"  It  was  by  Machico.  Yes  ?  Tell  me  anyways  it 
was  near  Machico.  It  must  'ave  been.  Tell  me  that." 

"  No !  "  said  Robert  Matcham. 

"  No  ?  "  But  once  again  he  clutched  his  beard.  "  You 
want  money  to  tell  ?  Put  your  price." 

"  No ! "  said  Robert  Matcham ;  and  the  word  came 
hot  as  an  oath.  .  .  . 

One  instant  I  saw  the  banker  toss  his  arms  like  a 
semaphore;  the  next  we  were  overborne.  Of  that  I 


276       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

retained  chiefly  a  bewilderment  at  the  force  of  our 
captors  and  the  ease  with  which  they  dealt  with  us. 
Shy  with  the  gun  they  might  be,  and  indeed  it  is  no 
natural  weapon  of  their  race ;  but  these  operators  knew 
the  use  of  trip  and  hamstring  —  the  hugger-mugger 
arts;  none  better.  My  feet  were  driven  from  under 
me;  my  wrists  paralyzed;  I  was  caught  and  wound 
like  a  cocoon;  and  when  I  dropped  it  was  on  the 
cushions  of  the  automobile.  And,  though  this  might 
be  a  slight-enough  feat  regarding  myself,  it  was  the 
measure  of  their  cleverness  that  I  found  Robert 
Matcham  already  there,  pocketed  in  a  helpless  bale. 
I  believe  he  had  no  chance  so  much  as  to  lift  a  hand. 

"  You  won'  be  nize  with  me?  "  The  banker's  chuckle 
floated  back  to  us.  "  Then  you  can  try  being  not  nize 
with  our  Number  One,  and  see  'ow  you  like  it ! " 

He  left  us  that  threat  to  ponder  during  our  journey 
to  Machico.  .  .  .  For  it  was  Machico.  Where  else? 
As  soon  as  they  whisked  us  away  toward  the  eastern 
coast  road  I  knew  it  must  be  Machico.  Where  else 
should  they  take  Robert  Matcham,  whose  five  cen 
turies  looked  down  on  him  this  night?  The  rain  had 
ceased ;  the  clouds  were  lightening  and  shredding  out 
to  sea  when  we  arrived. 

There  stands  a  tiny  ruined  fortaleza  on  a  hill  near 
the  southeast  point  of  Madeira,  whereof  I  know  more 
than  most  folks.  You  may  seek  and  never  find  it,  for 
it  is  now  quite  lost  among  the  sugar  fields,  over-topped 
by  the  rank  cane.  Its  square  tower,  whence  the  first 
lords  of  the  soil  used  to  keep  stern  ward  against  the 
Moorish  marauder,  was  long  ago  shorn  to  the  lowly 
uses  of  husbandry  and  built  about  with  arbors ;  but  its 
walls  are  a  yard  thick  under  the  plaster,  thick  enough 
for  a  dungeon  —  or  an  inquisition  chamber.  No  place 
could  be  more  secret,  and  a  man  might  lie  hid  there, 
like  a  toad  in  a  hollow  rock,  never  to  be  traced. 

This  was  the  obscure  prison  to  which  they  brought 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  277 

Robert  Matcham  and  myself  by  tortuous  ways  along 
the  terraces.  And  here  they  carried  us  in  from  the 
forecourt  to  a  low-ceiled  hall  and  set  us  up  for  judg 
ment,  where  many  another  unhappy  captive  must  have 
stood  before. 

It  was  dim  and  chill  as  a  vault,  believed  only  by  a 
hanging  iron  lamp,  which  shed  one  yellow  splash  of 
light  in  the  center.  For  some  time  I  could  discern 
nothing  outside  that  wavering  radiance  on  the  deep- 
worn  flags  of  the  floor,  though  conscious  of  shifting 
figures  in  the  gloom,  of  whispered  stir  and  preparation. 

For  myself  I  had  no  great  fear.  The  thing  was  so 
remote,  and  in  itself  so  certain,  sure,  inexorable ;  a  play 
of  issues  that  held  no  part  for  a  trifler  like  me.  I  was 
only  a  supernumerary,  who  had  blundered  on  at  the 
climax;  a  spectator  who,  having  bought  a  stage  seat, 
finds  himself  hustled  into  the  riot.  I  had  "  come  ask 
ing  " ;  and  it  was  hard  for  me  to  take  our  picturesque 
knave  and  his  plottings  and  struttings  quite  seriously. 

But  how  of  Robert  Matcham?  The  case  was  very 
different  with  him.  When  I  glanced  at  his  face  I  knew 
the  possibilities  for  that  harried  giant  to  be  just 
exactly  as  serious  as  life  and  death. 

Throughout  the  long  run  he  had  spoken  only  once; 
and  of  all  the  comments  he  might  have  made : 

"  It  was  wrong  of  me  to  let  you  in  for  this,"  he  had 
said  very  quietly;  one  of  those  phrases  that  throw  a 
lightning  glint  on  a  whole  nature. 

He  would  yield  no  more.  Circumstance  could  prod 
him  no  further.  I  swear  the  fellow  was  volcanic  to 
the  touch.  Heaven  help  the  first  brigand  within  reach 
if  ever  they  loosed  him  again!  .  .  . 

A  door  opened  behind  us  and  closed  again  with  a 
heavy  jar,  and  quickly  we  were  aware  of  a  new  pres 
ence.  The  waiting  hush  took  an  electric  quality,  a 
tension.  Some  one  was  standing  there,  across ;  and  I 
peered  nervously,  for  this  could  only  be  the  chief  of 


278       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

the  band,  the  "  head  devil,"  on  whose  will  or  whim 
we  must  suppose  ourselves  to  hang.  I  scarcely  know 
what  I  expected;  what  image  I  had  formed  of  that 
mysterious  Number  One,  who  had  put  such  strange 
events  in  motion.  Something  very  alarming  and  for 
midable,  at  least,  and  certainly  very  far  detached  from 
the  sort  of  greeting  that  reached  us  now.  Its  words 
came  rippling  like  notes  of  music : 

"  I  am  sure  there  must  be  some  meestake.  It  could 
not  be  these  who  rafuse  a  kindness  to  a  stranger! 
Pedro  —  these  are  zaintlemen !  Pedro  —  Pedro  —  you 
shall  answer  to  me!  Oh,  stupid-head  —  always  to 
bungle  some  more !  " 

I  despair  of  conveying  that  trick  of  speech,  subtly 
exotic  —  like  the  tang  in  some  rare  wine.  But  the 
voice !  Each  has  heard  such  a  voice  for  himself,  once 
or  twice  perhaps,  and  felt  his  blood  leap  to  answer, 
singing.  It  was  a  woman's  voice,  mellow-throated  as 
a  bird's. 

Robert  Matcham  raised  his  head  at  the  first  sound 
of  it;  but  still  we  could  see  nothing  to  distinguish  the 
speaker  —  only  a  vague  apparition,  nebulous,  tall  and 
slim.  She  moved  before  us,  and  presently  sank  half- 
reclining  on  some  divan  or  deep  settle  midway  of  the 
room. 

A  hurried,  anxious  mumble  seemed  to  show  that  the 
unfortunate  Pedro  made  his  excuse;  but  she  waved 
them  away. 

"Messieurs"  she  said  —  "Senhores — I  must  truly 
apologize  to  r'ceive  you  so.  My  friend'  have  exceed' 
their  instruction.  I  would  not  that  they  should  treat 
you  with  such  rudeness.  I  would  not  have  you  sink 
us  criminel.  Believe  me  —  no !  " 

But,  though  she  protested  warmly,  I  could  not  ob 
serve  any  offer  to  release  us. 

"  And  English  too !  "  Her  soft  drawl  was  a  caress. 
"  See  how  bete  is  that  Pedro  —  to  sink  he  could  make 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  279 

you  tell  anysing  to  a  r-robber  in  the  street !  Of  course 
you  would  not  tell !  But  me  —  I  shall  ex-plain  so  clear 
and  so  simple ;  and  then  you  shall  understand.  Attend 
me,  please: 

"  There  is  a  great  treasure  on  the  shore  of  these 
island.  A  gr-reat  treasure  wrecked  with  a  ship  long 
taime  bifore.  Always,  always  it  is  known  —  only 
where?  Thad  nobody  can  know!  By  Machico,  they 
say  —  yes.  But  z'  waters  by  Machico  are  deep  and 
cruel,  and  thad  ship  has  went  all  to  liT  piece'  hundreds 
years  ago ;  and  only  the  gold  —  the  heavy,  heavy  doub 
loon  gold  —  r'main  down  there ;  and  to  find  it  is  not 
possible.  So  at  last  thad  story  is  nearly  forgot !  You 
see? .... 

"  But  listen  now :  Only  three  mon's  ago  a  poor  fisher 
boy  finds  a  one  coin  on  the  rocks.  Somewhere  —  some 
where  he  finds  it,  and  quick  the  news  shoots  to  Por 
tugal,  to  Spain.  My  friends  and  me,  we  heard  thad 
news.  We  are  very  much  excite';  for  w'ere  thad  coin 
is  —  you  comprehend  —  there  z'rest  must  also  be !  So 
we  make  a  company  among  us ;  and  me,  bicause  —  oh, 
bicause  I  am  not  quite  unknown  in  several  co'ntries 
and  I  have  some  little  hinfluence,  it  may  be  —  I  am 
bicome  the  Madame  Presidente  —  ze  Number  One. 
Yes. 

"  We  hurry  to  Madeira.  And  what  do  you  sink  ? 
Thad  boy  —  thad  poor  fisher  boy  —  he  don't  know 
w'ere  he  find  that  coin!  True,  I  tell  you!  We  take 
him  here ;  we  take  him  there  —  no  good !  He  never 
can  rimember  w'ere  he  found  it.  He  is  so  stupid  —  a 
liT  fool  in  the  head,  that  poor  Joao,  who  now  makes 
drinks  in  the  Casino.  Pobrecito!  Pauvre  gars!  And 
so  our  treasure  is  lost  again.  .  .  . 

"  Until  you  come  along  —  you  big  zaintleman  there. 
You  are  a  stranger,  a  foreign' — knowing  nothing  of 
all  this.  You  take  yourself  for  a  walk  by  the  beach 
and,  very  first  thing  —  what?  You  pick  up  another 


280       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

one  coin  of  this  treasure !  Ah,  thad  is  so  remark-able ! 
Thad  is  a  wonderful,  truly!  But  what  can  we  do? 
We  must  know  w'ere  you  pick  it  up  —  that  is  es-sen- 
tial  to  us.  And  nobody  knows  but  you.  So  now  you 
understand  why  my  friends  should  make  you  all  this 
trouble." 

The  red  dot  of  a  cigarette  glowed  to  life  between 
her  lips,  and  by  that  tormented  spark  we  glimpsed  a 
face  that  seemed  to  advance  out  of  the  darkness  and  to 
retreat  again  as  swiftly  —  the  merest  vision  of  an 
exquisite  and  roseate  loveliness. 

She  waited  for  an  answer;  but  Robert  Matcham 
made  none. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  with  the  gentlest  concern, 
"  perhaps  I  do  not  make  myself  yet  quite  clear.  You 
will  r'mark  thad  we  are  going  to  know !  Somehow  or 
another  we  are  going  to  know.  Thees  is  a  too  ancient 
claim  of  ours  —  writ'  on  ancient  parchmen' —  and  no 
body  can  kip  us  from  it  now,  when  we  are  so  close. 
Voila!" 

The  stillness  weighed  again  and  I  saw  Robert 
Matcham's  great  chest  heave  and  fall. 

"  I,  too,  have  a  claim,"  he  said,  his  full,  deep  tone 
rolling  under  the  roof  like  an  organ  pipe. 

She  drew  herself  up  to  stare  toward  him. 

"How?"  she  breathed. 

And  it  was  given  Robert  Matcham  then  to  have  his 
say  out. 

"  Either  that  or  nothing !  "  he  declared  quite  simply. 
"  Either  I  have  a  claim  or  there's  no  sense  to  life. 
Lady  —  look  at  me!  Do  you  see  a  fool,  a  weakling 
or  an  imbecile?  None  of  these,  I  think.  .  .  . 

"  When  a  man  has  been  knocked  blind  and  silly  by 
his  luck ;  when  he's  been  hammered  out  of  all  hope  and 
pride  in  himself  —  what  can  he  do,  lady?  Well,  there's 
one  of  two  things  for  him:  he  can  lie  down  and  curl 
up  like  a  worm,  and  confess  he's  only  a  lump  of  flesh, 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  281 

with  no  more  control  over  his  destiny  than  a  bit  of 
flotsam  on  the  sea.  He  can  do  that  —  or  else  he  can 
sink  teeth  and  claw  on  the  first  hold  and  make  it  have 
a  meaning;  stick  to  it,  and  die  sticking! 

"  I've  had  enough.  I  call  enough !  I'm  half  a  world 
out  of  my  place.  I've  lost  everything  I  ever  wanted; 
stood  every  mock  and  failure  —  a  plaything  for  events. 
And  now  there's  got  to  be  a  meaning:  I'm  going  to 
put  a  meaning  to  it.  If  there's  a  treasure,  as  you  say, 
it's  mine ;  it  must  be  mine ;  it's  got  to  be  mine  —  and 
it's  going  to  be  mine  or  nobody's!  .  .  .  And  all  hell 
can't  make  me  speak !  " 

The  fellow  seemed  to  swell  beside  me;  I  heard  the 
ropes  creak  about  his  limbs ;  and  heard,  too,  the  sharp- 
drawn  gasp  of  the  woman  in  the  shadow. 

"  No !    And  how  do  you  think  you  can  privent  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Robert  Matcham  —  and  his  voice  rang 
with  high  exultation  at  last  — "  I  can  begin  this  way !  " 

His  bonds  snapped  from  him  like  thread;  his  fist 
went  to  his  breast  and  came  away  armed  with  glitter  — 
Joao's  revolver,  which  he  had  hidden  there.  It  spat 
saffron,  twice  and  thrice,  toward  the  door.  He  fol 
lowed  on  and  met  a  rush  of  opposing  figures.  I  saw 
the  fat  croupier  fall.  I  myself  was  bowled  over,  deaf 
ened  by  the  bursting  clamor,  trampled,  kicked  in  the 
head.  Half-stunned,  I  writhed  round  to  watch  the 
struggle,  adding  my  feeble  pipe  to  the  din. 

"Go  on,  Robert  Matcham!"  I  yelled.  "Go  on! 
Smash  through !  Oh,  smash  'em  " 

They  swarmed  upon  him,  reaching  for  their  deadly 
holds.  Three  had  him  about  the  waist;  another  clung 
to  his  feet;  still  others  barred  his  path.  So  I  saw  him 
for  the  click  of  a  shutter;  and  then,  roaring  with 
battle,  he  broke  away,  stripped  them  off  like  rats, 
waded  on  —  plucked  up  the  last  one  bodily  and  used 
him  like  a  flail. 

He  was  free!     Free  long  enough  to  tear  the  door 


282       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

open  and  step  back  for  a  dash  —  and  there  she  met 

him.  .  .  . 

A  bright  bar  of  light  cut  in  from  the  outer  court 
and  shone  full  upon  her  — a  splendor  of  beauty  to 
stop  a  man's  heart  in  his  breast.  She  was  dark,  like 
some  tinted  pearls  —  dark  as  he  was  fair  —  and  ripe 
as  her  own  lips.  Her  eyes,  heavy-lidded,  were  slightly 
lifted  to  him  with  an  amorous  languidness.  She  did  not 
flinch,  save  for  a  tiny  quiver  of  nostril,  thin  and  clear 
like  a  roseleaf,  and  the  rise  of  her  bosom,  and  when 
her  little  hand  crept  up  to  her  throat. 

So  she  stayed,  and  so  he  stayed,  while  the  uproar 
died  and  fell  away  into  the  void  —  long  and  long; 
while  time  lost  all  count;  while  these  two  exchanged 
such  a  message  as  five  centuries  could  not  change,  but 
no  man  can  guess  or  words  declare.  And  then  — 

"  Robert,"  she  said,  "  this  is  your  treasure !  " 

"Anna!"  said  Robert  Matcham.    "Anna!" 

I  heard  them — I,  myself;  I  heard  them.  .  .  . 

It  was  the  spade-bearded  banker  who  brought  me  to. 

"  So,"  he  nodded,  with  an  amazing  grin,  "  you  are 
notadaid?  Tha'snize!  Now  there  are  not  any  daids 
at  all,  and  everybody  being  much  pleased." 

I  blinked  up  at  him  from  the  divan  on  which  I  lay, 
and  then  round  the  room,  gray  and  bare  in  the  dawn, 
which  had  stolen  in  by  opened  door  and  casement. 
The  banker  sat  down  at  a  little  table  near  by  and 
beamed  at  me.  I  noticed  that  he  carried  one  arm  in  a 
sling,  but  otherwise  he  was  still  the  model  rogue,  jimp 
and  smiling.  There  was  no  one  else  in  sight. 

"  They  are  all  down  'elping  to  fish  up  that  box  of 
gorpieces,"  he  explained.  "  You  didn'  know  that, 
eh?" 

"Where?" 

"  Below  the  beach.  Your  frien'  showed  the  place ; 
and,  sure  enough,  there  we  dived  and  foun'  it.  But 
him  — Oh,  Id  la!"  He  chuckled.  "Him  and  her, 


DOUBLOON  GOLD  283 

what  do  they  care?  They  'ave  gone  off  together  by 
their  lones  to  see  the  sunrise  —  those  dears !  " 

"Who  was  she?"  I  cried,  starting  up  dizzily. 

"  What  ?  You  not  know  that  divine  ballerina,  that 
dancer  so  sublime,  that  singer  so  sweet?"  He  kissed 
his  finger  tips.  "  Anna  Darfetho,  of  Lisbon,  and  Paris, 
and  Madrid !  Only  now  —  good-by !  It  is  finish' ! 
She  are  going  with  him  to  Australia.  Imagine!  And 
what  for,  do  you  think  ?  To  spend  their  share  —  'Oly 
Virgin !  —  in  raising  little  woolly  sheeps  together !  " 

"Share?" 

"  Oh,  we  all  share  —  that  is  agree'.  Only  me  —  you 
understand,  I  am  —  'ow  you  say  ?  —  the  tiger  for  eat 
the  mos'.  Yes,  I  get  the  mos',  because  truly  it  should 
belong  all  mine.  .  .  .  Be'old  —  for  this  our  fazers  used 
to  cut  the  throat !  " 

He  took  up  from  the  table  one  of  several  blackish, 
common-looking  lumps,  like  slag,  and  weighed  it ;  and 
smiled  his  smile  of  the  gentlemanly  brigand  who  gloats 
upon  the  fortune  won.  And  as  I  stared  at  that  supe 
rior  knave  the  whole  stupendous  marvel  closed  up  with 
a  final  click. 

Pilot?  Pilot?  I  remembered  the  quaint  phrase  of 
the  chronicle:  "  Great  fighting  pilot  of  Spain  " — pilot? 
Pirate,  rather.  Pirate,  of  course !  .  .  . 

"Then  you  must  be  Pedro  Morales?"  I  gasped. 

"  Ah,  you  know  my  name  ?  "  he  twinkled  pleasantly. 
"  What  a  coincident !  " 

But  I  had  had  enough  —  enough  of  coincidence,  of 
romance  and  adventure  and  authentic  thrill  to  last  me 
for  some  time,  and  rather  more  than  I  had  bargained 
for  with  my  ten  pounds.  I  groped  my  way  out  into 
the  open  and  the  brisk  morning  breeze ;  and  there,  look 
ing  down  to  seaward  through  an  alley  in  the  cane,  I 
saw  the  new  sun  come  up,  as  round  and  broad  and 
ruddy  as  —  as  a  Portuguese  doubloon. 


THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER 

SUTTON  was  startling  enough,  and  brisk,  and 
eager  —  too  eager.  For  five  minutes  after  he 
broke  in  upon  us  he  held  us  paralyzed  with  the 
story  of  his  adventure  through  the  back  slums  of 
Colootullah  and  the  amazing  discovery  he  had  made 
there.  And  yet  the  gross  fact  glanced  from  us  alto 
gether,  perhaps  through  his  very  vehemence,  perhaps 
because  of  a  certain  obscure  unsteadiness  in  the  fel 
low.  .  .  . 

"  That's  where  the  chief  went  to  hide  himself ! "  he 
cried,  and  we  heard  the  words,  but  rather  we  were 
listening  to  the  tone  and  watching  Sutton;  he  con 
vinced  us  of  nothing. 

He  stood  before  us  alight  with  animation;  still 
breathed  with  hurry.  Though  the  gummy  heat  of  the 
monsoon  made  the  little  cabin  a  sweat  box,  he  had 
not  stopped  to  strip  his  rubber  coat.  It  shone  wet 
and  streaky  under  the  lamp  as  he  gestured,  and  the 
rain-drops  glistening  in  his  stub  mustache  were  no 
brighter  than  his  eyes.  And  this  was  a  notable  thing 
of  itself  —  to  see  him  so  restored,  the  jaunty,  con 
fident  young  mate  we  had  used  to  know,  drawn  from 
the  sulky  reserve  that  had  held  him  these  many  weeks. 
But  most  singular  of  all,  as  it  seemed  to  us  then,  was 
the  way  he  wound  up  his  outburst: 

".  .  .  So  I  came  straight  away  on  the  jump  to  get 
you  both,"  he  declared,  in  a  rush.  "  We  can  straighten 
out  this  mess  to-night  —  the  three  of  us  —  just  as 
easy.  I've  a  great  notion.  .  .  .  Listen,  now. 

"There  was  a  chap  in  a  book  I  read,  d'y'see?  The 
other  Johnnies  put  a  game  on  him.  Didn't  they  put 

284 


THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER    285 

up  a  game  on  him,  to  be  sure!  They  made  him  think 
he  was  a  duke  or  something,  d'y'see?  When  he  woke 
up !  And,  by  gum,  he  believed  'em !  They  made  him. 
Now  there's  the  very  tip  we  need  to  bring  Chris  Wick- 
wire  around  all  serene." 

Captain  Raff,  sitting  rigid  on  the  couch,  recovered 
sufficiently  to  unclamp  his  jaw  from  the  fag-end  of  a 
dead  cheroot.  He  had  the  air  of  one  who  goes  about 
to  pluck  a  single  straw  of  sense  from  a  whirl  of  fan 
tasy. 

"A  book,"  he  repeated.  "A  chap  in  a  book? 
What  in  Hull  t'  Halifax  is  the  boy  talkin'  about?" 

Literature  aboard  the  Maung  Poh  was  represented 
between  the  chronometer  and  the  bottle  rack  by  a 
scant  half  dozen  of  Admiral  publications.  But  Sutton 
laid  no  strain  on  our  library.  From  his  own  pocket, 
like  a  conjurer  that  draws  a  rabbit  from  a  hat,  and 
quite  as  astonishingly,  he  produced  a  shabby,  black- 
bound  octavo.  "  Here  it  is,  sir.  Shakespeare  wrote  it. 
And  the  chap's  name  was  Christopher  too  —  a  tinker 
by  his  trade.  Queer  thing!" 

It  was ;  you  must  figure  here  just  how  queer  it  was, 
and  how  far  removed  we  were  in  our  lawful  occasions 
from  books  and  people  in  books  and  all  such  recondite 
subjects  —  captain,  mate,  and  acting  engineer  of  a 
1,500-ton  tub  of  a  country  wallah  trading  between 
Calcutta,  Burma,  the  Straits,  and  the  China  side. 

By  common  gossip  up  and  down  among  the  brass- 
buttoned  tribe  such  billets  mostly  got  men  with  a 
spot  in  them  somewhere.  We  kept  our  spots  pretty 
well  hidden  if  it  was  so.  There  was  nothing  publicly 
wrong  with  any  of  us.  Captain  Raff  commanded  for 
our  Parsee  owners,  because  he  always  had  commanded 
for  them  and  never  expected  to  do  anything  else,  sob 
erly  and  carefully  —  a  man  of  simple  vision,  incapable 
of  vain  hopes  and  imaginings.  Myself,  I  was  follow- 


286       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

ing  up  a  long  run  of  ill  health,  glad  enough  of  the  sure 
berth  an  dgood  food.  And  the  only  obvious  fault  with 
Sutton  —  though  the  same  can  be  serious  too  —  was 
youth.  .  .  . 

Here  we  were,  then,  on  the  old  Moung  Poh.  From 
the  chart-room  port  we  could  see  the  low-lying  haze 
of  lights  beyond  Principe  Ghat  and  hear  the  lash  of 
rain  down  the  Hooghly  and  smell  the  sickly  mixture 
of  twenty-four  different  smells  that  make  the  breath 
of  that  city  built  on  a  sink.  We  had  been  coaling  and 
hard  at  it  all  day  in  a  grime  that  turned  to  paste 
upon  us.  What  with  heat  and  weariness,  our  minds 
were  pasted  as  well,  you  might  say.  The  captain  and 
I  were  grubbing  among  indents  over  a  matter  of  annas 
and  pice,  when  along  comes  Sutton,  back  from  shore 
leave,  to  spring  a  wondrous  tale  —  ending  in  Shakes 
peare  !  If  I  remind  you  further  that  there  is  more 
truth  than  poetry  about  the  mercantile  marine,  per 
haps  you  may  glimpse  the  net  effect. 

Sutton  doubled  the  volume  hastily  between  his  hands 
and  ruffled  its  worn  pages.  He  seemed  quite  familiar 
with  it.  How  it  had  ever  reached  the  Moung  Poh  we 
could  not  guess,  nor  did  he  give  us  time  to  inquire. 
"  I'll  show  you,  sir,"  he  continued  in  the  same  nervous 
key.  "  These  Johnnies,  you  should  know,  they  found 
this  old  bargee  dead  drunk.  And  so  they  made  out 
to  gammon  him  for  his  own  good,  to  practice  on  him, 
as  they  put  it.  '  Sirs,'  says  one  of  'em  — '  sirs,  I  will 
practice  on  this  drunken  man.'  Here's  the  place  ready 
marked,  d'y'see? 

Sirs,  I  will  practice  on  this  drunken  man, 

What  think  you,  if  he  were  convey'd  to  bed, 

Wrapp'd  in  sweet  clothes,  rings  put  upon  his  fingers, 

A  most  delicious  banquet  by  his  bed, 

And  brave  attendants  near  him  when  he  wakes: 

Would  not  the  beggar  then  forget  himself t 

"  That  was  their  little  game  —  to  make  the  beggar 


THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER    287 

forget  himself.  And  they  did  —  by  jing,  they  played 
him  proper!  He  did  forget  himself,  all  his  low  habits 
and  such."  He  hammered  the  book  for  emphasis. 
"  Soon  as  I  saw  Wickwire  it  come  to  me  like  that. 
There's  the  thing  we'd  ought  to  do  for  him !  " 

"'Rings  on  his  fingers — ? '"  The  captain  turned 
a  dumb  appeal  toward  me. 

"  Mr.  Sutton  says  he's  found  the  chief,  sir,"  I  sug 
gested,  for  I  had  begun  to  understand,  a  little.  "  He's 
found  Chris  Wickwire." 

"Wickwire?"  With  a  jerk  he  caught  up  the  real 
marvel  at  last,  and  the  crop  hair  seemed  to  stiffen  all 
over  his  bullet  head.  "  The  chief !  "  he  roared. 

"  That's  what  I've  been  trying  to  tell  you,  sir." 

"Alive?" 

"  Very  much  alive." 

"  Well,  where  is  he?    Why  ain't  he  here?  " 

We  saw  the  glow  fade  from  Sutton's  cheek.  "  I 
thought  I  explained,  sir.  He  —  he's  not  quite  him 
self."  Already  the  index  of  his  temperament  was 
beginning  to  swing  from  fair  to  foul  again  and  his 
handsome  face  to  blur  with  doubt.  The  thing  that 
had  looked  so  easy  at  the  first  feverish  flush  of  relief 
was  taking  another  proportion.  "  No,  that's  the  devil 
of  it,"  he  said,  gnawing  the  corner  of  his  mustache. 
"  Not  by  any  means  himself.  He  didn't  even  seem  to 
know  me." 

"  He  might  anyhow  ha'  wrote  to  tell  us  what  hap 
pened  to  him  that  night." 

The  mate's  dark  lashes  lifted  a  little  in  a  superior 
way  they  had  as  he  stuffed  the  book  out  of  sight. 

"  He  might  have,  only  Wickwire  couldn't  read  — 
you  remember,  sir.  He'd  hardly  be  apt  to  write 
either." 

But  Raff  held  to  the  point. 

"Are  you  sure  it  was  him?  What'd  he  have  to 
say?" 


288       WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

"  He  wouldn't  come  along  —  wouldn't  listen  to  me. 

He he  said,  if  you  want  to  know  —  he  told  me  to 

go  troubling  the  wicked  if  I  liked,  but  to  leave  the 
weary  at  rest,  and  swore  a  little  by  this  and  that  and 
so  turned  to  another  pipe." 

The  captain  smote  his  thigh  a  clap  like  a  pistol 
shot,  and  indeed  it  needed  no  more  to  convince  any 
one,  the  quaint  phrase  brought  quick  before  us  the 
figure  of  that  sour,  dour  Scotch  engineer  whose  loss 
had  cast  such  a  gloom  upon  our  little  company,  had 
left  such  a  lading  of  mystery  aboard  the  Moung  Poh. 

11  Six  —  seven  weeks  since.  And  he  ain't  dead  after 
all—!" 

"  Seven  weeks  and  three  days."  .  .  . 

There  was  that  in  Sutton's  tone  which  served  to 
check  the  captain's  jubilant  bellow.  He  knew,  we 
both  knew,  what  would  be  coming  next.  "  Twentieth 
June  was  the  date,  sir  —  before  our  last  trip  to  Moul- 
mein.  We  were  lying  here  in  this  very  berth,  No.  6 
Principe  Ghat,  on  just  such  another  night  as  this,  at 
the  beginning  of  the  rains.  We'd  been  coaling  too; 
some  empty  barges  lay  alongside.  As  it  might  be 
now,  without  the  gap  of  time  — " 

Sutton  spoke  downward-looking,  twisting  his  cap 
in  his  hands,  and  he  told  the  thing  like  one  doing 
penance  and  square  enough,  as  he  had  from  the  first 
alarm.  A  clean-cut,  upstanding  youngster,  a  satisfac 
tory  figure  of  a  youngster,  the  sort  every  man  likes 
to  frame  to  himself  for  an  image  of  his  own  youth. 
And  yet  —  and  yet,  hearkening,  I  caught  the  same 
unsteady  note  that  had  made  me  curious  of  him  often 
and  often  before.  Something  in  him  rang  false.  Not 
so  much  like  a  bell  that  has  cracked,  if  you  under 
stand  me,  but  rather  like  metal  whereof  the  alloy  was 
never  rightly  fined. 

"  I  was  off  watch  that  evening,"  he  went  on.  "  Chris 
Wickwire  wanted  to  go  ashore  —  for  the  first  time  in 


THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER    289 

a  year  maybe.  You  know  you  generally  couldn't  lift 
him  out  of  the  ship  with  a  winch,  and  so  I  waited  till 
he  should  come  up  and  step  by  the  gangway  to  fix  a 
bit  of  a  joke  on  him.  It  was  wrong  of  me,  and  very 
silly,  you  know,  and  dearly  I've  paid  for  it.  But  I 
only  meant  a  jape,  sir  —  to  hear  him  rip  and  fuss  and 
perhaps  jolt  a  proper  oath  out  of  him  and  make  him 
break  that  everlasting  clay  cutty  he  always  wore  in 
his  face.  ...  I  fixed  to  loose  the  hand  rope  on  the 
outboard  side  — 

"  I  did  loose  it,  you  know  I  did ;  and  then  I  leaned 
there  on  the  rail  to  laugh.  He  went  down  the  steps 
in  the  dark.  I  figgered  he'd  be  slid  quite  neat  into  the 
shore  boat  waiting  below,  d'y'see  ?  I  heard  him  stumble 
and  call  for  me  before  I  thought  what  I'd  done.  I 
heard  him,  and  I  didn't  go  to  help,  but  I  never  thought 
how  it  would  be,  sir,  not  till  too  late.  You  believe 
that—  !" 

The  cry  wrenched  from  him  as  he  searched  our 
faces.  It  was  very  necessary  to  him  that  we  should 
believe;  he  had  all  a  boy's  eagerness  to  keep  the  illu 
sion  —  some  illusion.  And  this  was  natural  too,  though 
even  the  kid  prank  as  he  told  it  came  to  the  same 
stark  and  gratuitous  horror.  For  Chris  Wickwire  had 
dropped  out  of  life  from  that  gangway ! 

Captain  Raff  chewed  his  cheroot  for  a  space  in  si 
lence.  You  would  hardly  expect  him  to  have  the 
subtlety  of  a  donkey  engine,  so  to  speak,  but  he  might 
surprise  you  at  times,  and  he  had  learned  to  be  very 
patient  with  the  mate.  Perhaps  in  his  own  time  he 
had  passed  some  crisis  when  the  stuff  in  him  was 
molding  and  setting,  though  it  must  have  been  quite 
a  different  occasion  with  so  rugged  a  soul. 

"  Well,"  he  said  carefully,  "  we  know  all  that,  and 
I  never  heard  nobody  jaw  you  as  hard  about  it  as 
what  you  done  yourself.  But  it's  all  right  now,  ain't 
it?  You've  found  him.  Didn't  you  just  say  you 


290  WHERE  THE  PAVEMENT  ENDS 
found  him  again?"  And  then  he  added  what  turned 
out  to  be  a  singular  comment :  "  If  the  chief  was 
smokin'  his  ol'  pipe  as  usual,  I  judge  nothin'  much 
could  ha'  happened  to  him.  He  must  be  pretty  much 
his  own  self  after  all." 

So  Sutton  was  driven  back  on  the  mere  fact,  which 
must  always  have  been  tough  for  him.  He  had  blinked 
it  thus  far,  as  I  suppose  was  his  weakness  to  blink  and 
to  spin  all  manner  of  sanguine  threads  about  the  naked 
nubs  of  things.  But  if  he  meant  to  tell,  he  had  here 
to  tell  outright,  though  I  saw  him  wince.  .  .  . 

"  I  found  him  in  an  awful  hole  down  there,"  he  fal 
tered,"  a  kind  of  a  chandoo  shop.  And  the  stuff  he's 
smoking  now  is  —  opium !  " 

I  cannot  say  that  either  Raff  or  myself  had  arrived 
at  any  clearness  when  we  headed  away  into  the  maze 
of  Colootullah  that  night.  It  was  all  a  bad  dream, 
and  it  began  badly,  in  a  dog  kennel  of  a  ticca  gharri 
that  racked  us  in  tune  to  our  own  jarring  thoughts. 

We  huddled  together  on  the  one  bench,  we  two, 
though,  dear  knows,  the  captain  would  have  been  a 
fare  by  himself.  Sutton  sat  opposite  quite  stiffly  with 
his  knees  drawn  aside,  and  the  journey  long  said  never 
a  word.  And  this  was  the  next  aspect  we  had  of  him, 
you  will  note:  a  strained  and  silent  presence  and  a 
pallid  face  glimpsed  now  and  then  by  the  brief  flicker 
of  some  street  lamp.  For  he  had  seen  what  we  had 
not  —  Chris  Wickwire  alive,  but  Chris  Wickwire 
transmogrified  out  of  all  belief,  the  inmate  of  a  hideous 
den  in  the  city's  vilest  slum  —  and  somehow  it  set  him 
sharp  apart  from  us.  ... 

You  must  know  there  had  been  something  very  spe 
cial  in  the  bearing  of  all  hands  toward  the  chief  engi 
neer  of  the  Moung  Poh.  Every  ship  has  her  social 
code.  We  had  been  a  good  deal  of  a  family  craft,  as 
they  say,  and  in  the  curious  way  of  such  traditions 


THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER    291 

this  had  come  to  center  on  Chris  Wickwire.  If  Raff 
was  the  sturdy  patriarch,  the  chief  had  been  the  prim 
and  formidable  maiden  aunt  of  our  little  household 
on  the  high  seas. 

I  suppose  to  any  outsider  he  must  have  seemed  no! 
more  than  a  long-boned,  long-lipped  stick  of  a  Dum 
bartonshire  Carneronian,  as  dry  as  the  texts  he  was 
always  mishandling.  But  he  had  a  value  to  us  like 
a  prized  domestic  relic;  we  admired,  derided,  and 
swore  equally  by  and  after  him.  His  vast,  lean  height 
and  face  of  a  hanging  judge,  his  denatured  profanity,, 
and  the  intimate  atmosphere  of  disaster,  hell-fire,  and 
general  damnation  in  which  he  moved  —  these  were, 
points  of  pride  and  almost  of  affection. 

"  See  that  eye  ?  "  said  a  Newcastle  collier  cove  newly 
translated  third  engineer  —  we  sampled  some  odd 
specimens  for  third  up  and  down  the  ports  — "  Ol' 
Chris,  'twas  'im  done  it.  '  You  red,  raw,  an'  blistered 
son  of  perdition,'  he  says,  '  I'll  learn  you  to  'ide  liquor 
in  your  bunk.  Wine  is  a  knocker/  he  says,  and 
stretches  me.  And  with  that  goes  back  to  his  cabin 
to  prye  for  me!  I  'card  'im  groanin'  as  I  come  by  the 
dead-light.  Oh,  he's  a  'oly  wonder  and  no  mistyke  — 
once  he  goes  to  set  a  bloke  right  there's  nothin'  he 
won't  do  for  'im !  " 

Nobody  knew  what  wide  courses  had  brought  him 
eastward;  his  history  began  at  the  dock  head  where 
he  appeared  with  the  famous  clay  pipe  in  his  mouth 
and  the  rest  of  his  luggage  in  a  plaid.  There  was  a 
loose  rumor  he  had  once  been  top  tinker  in  the  big 
liners,  until  he  took  to  raiding  the  saloon  for  revivals 
and  frightening  the  lady  passengers  into  fits.  It  was 
said  again  that  he  had  come  out  from  his  native  boiler 
shops  of  Clyde  as  a  missionary,  making  vast 
trouble  for  the  official  brethren  and  seeking  converts 
with  a  club.  But  if  his  doctrine  was  somewhat  crude, 
he  had  a  lifetime's  knowledge  of  machinery,  and  the 


292       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 
man  that  can  nurse  engines  will  need  to  show  fewer 
diplomas  in  outlandish  parts  than  the  one  that  can 
save  souls.     By  the  same  token  Chris  Wickwire  un 
dertook  to  do  both. 

You  can  figure  how  this  bleak  moralist  would  fasten 
on  a  type  like  Sutton.  Soft  airs  and  sweet  skies  had 
no  appeal  for  the  Cameronian ;  to  him  the  balmy  East 
was  all  one  net  of  the  devil  baited  with  strange  seduc 
tions,  and  unnamable  allurements.  The  rest  of  us 
were  hardly  worth  a  serious  warning.  But  our  youth 
ful  mate,  with  the  milk  scarce  dry  on  his  lips,  as  you 
might  say,  and  his  fresh  appetite  for  life  and  confident 
humor  —  here  was  a  brand  to  be  snatched  from  the 
burning:  here  was  a  stray  lamb  for  an  anxious  shep 
herd! 

And  Sutton  —  at  the  first  he  took  to  it  like  a  treat. 
It  made  a  new  game  for  him,  you  see,  amusing  and 
rather  flattering  as  well,  the  kind  of  a  jape  he  was  all 
too  apt  at. 

"Where  ha'  ye  been  the  day  —  ashore  again? 
Buyin'  gauds  an'  silk  pajamies,  I  notice.  Laddie,  do 
ye  never  tak  thocht  for  your  immortal  speerit,  which 
canna  hide  under  lasceevious  trickeries  nor  yet  cover 
its  waefuF  nakedness?  No'  to  speak  of  yon  blazin' 
Oriental  bazzaars,  fu'  o'  damnable  pitfalls  for  the  un 
wary!  Aye,  laugh  now!  .  .  .  Laddie,  ye're  light- 
minded.  Heaven  send  down  its  truth  upon  ye  before 
ye  wuther  like  the  lilies  o'  the  field ! " 

This  sort  of  thing  was  good  fun  for  Sutton  —  at  the 
start,  as  I  say.  He  must  have  had  many  a  rare  chuckle 
from  superior  ground.  Being  damned  with  such  as 
surance,  he  naturally  inquired  into  means  of  grace, 
and  so  developed  the  jest. 

With  the  streak  of  shyness  that  marked  him,  he  kept 
it  pretty  much  between  himself  and  the  censor,  but  I 


THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER    293 

chanced  to  overhear  an  odd  passage.  He  called  one 
day  for  a  Bible,  offering  to  prove  the  other  wrong  on 
some  argued  matter. 

"  Na,  f  egs,"  said  Christopher.    "  I  hae  nane." 

"What  — no  Book!" 

"  I  need  nane.    What  for?  " 

"  Why,  for  me,  of  course.  It's  a  remedy  for  all 
ills,  they  say.  .  .  .  I'm  surprised  at  your  not  trying  it 
on." 

They  made  a  picture  Jihere  by  the  rail  in  a  strong 
glint  of  sunlight  —  the  chief,  squatted  on  a  bollard 
like  a  grim  and  battered  Moses  giving  the  law ;  Sutton, 
dapper  in  fresh  ducks,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  sway 
ing  easily  to  the  ship's  motion. 

Wickwire  seemed  to  reflect.  "  Aye,  it's  a  grand 
book,  nae  doot,  but  wad  ye  listen?  I  been  watchin' 
ye,  laddie  —  I  ken  ye  better  than  maybe  ye  think." 

"  Much  obliged,  I'm  sure,"  said  Sutton  pertly. 

"  Aye,  there  it  is,  ye  see.  Ye  never  takr  the  straight 
way  wi'  life.  But  what  I  dinna  just  ken  is  this:  are 
ye  a'thegither  past  the  reach  o'  good  words  for  rem 
edy?  Puttin*  aside  the  false  glitter,  could  ever  ye 
cast  the  beam  from  yer  eye  an*  listen  how  hell  gapes 
for  ye?" 

"  I  might,"  said  Sutton.  "  You  haven't  a  notion 
how  I  enjoy  hearing  about  it.  You  might  read  to  me." 

I  was  startled  then  to  see  the  depth  of  yearning  in 
Wickwire's  regard,  to  see  his  hands  knotting  and 
twisting  one  in  the  other.  However  it  might  be  with 
the  mate,  it  was  no  play  with  him;  he  was  wrung 
with  pity  as  toward  an  erring  son,  or  toward  some 
younger  memory  of  himself,  perhaps  —  for  Sutton  had 
this  appeal. 

"  Suppose. I  should  tell  ye  now  I  canna  read  the  heid 
o'  one  printed  word  frae  the  hurdies  o'  it?" 

The  idea  took  slow  hold  of  Sutton  while  he  stared 
and  brightened. 


"  Can't  read?  "  he  echoed.  "  You  can't  read?  Why, 
in  that  case  —  I  could  read  to  you,"  he  cried  — 
"couldn't  I?  By  gum,  there's  a  notion!  I'll  do  a 
bit  of  instructing  myself,  d'y'see?  .  .  .  Truth  —  oodles 
of  truth!  I'll  show  you  old  boy — " 

And  he  did.  At  our  very  next  port  he  went  prowl 
ing  among  the  shops  where  the  Government  students 
get  their  second-hand  textbooks,  and  when  he  came 
back  he  brought  the  book  with  him,  a  book  with  a 
gilt  cross  on  the  cover.  You  would  have  fancied  the 
chief  must  have  gained  a  great  point  for  salvation ;  on 
the  other  hand,  Sutton  apparently  skimmed  the  cream 
of  the  joke,  for  he  certainly  read.  Thereafter  one  heard 
them  in  a  quiet  hour,  a  harsh  voice  like  the  rasp  of  an 
ash  hoist  rising  now  and  then  to  protest  and  a  lighter 
response,  droning  a  line  or  perhaps  breaking  over  into 
merriment.  .  .  . 

"Where's  the  chief?" 

"  Prayer  meetin'  on  the  after  'atch." 

"Saved  anybody  yet?" 

"  Give  'im  'is  chawnce,"  said  the  third.  "  Give  'im 
'is  bleedin'  chawnce.  He'll  fetch  that  myte  to  glory 
if  'e  'as  to  spatchcock  'im !  " 

But  it  ended  as,  of  course,  it  was  bound  to.  The 
one  grew  weary  or  the  other  too  insistent;  their  sit 
tings  were  suspended. 

For  a  time  they  were  not  even  on  speaking  terms, 
and  the  very  day  we  were  coaling  at  Calcutta  —  seven 
weeks  before,  you  remember  —  they  broke  suddenly 
on  an  open  quarrel.  What  it  was  about  none  could 
say,  but  all  that  afternoon  the  mate  went  strutting 
with  a  very  pink  face,  while  Christopher  kept  bobbing 
up  the  scuttle  to  glower  after  him  with  a  long-drawn 
lip  over  his  pipe. 

"  Did  he  say  he's  gaun  ashore  the  nicht?"  he  asked 
me  once,  in  a  whisper.  "  Aye,  there  it  is,  ye  see,"  he 
added  to  himself.  "  Wae's  me  for  the  fool  in  his  heart ! 


THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER   295 

He's  young  —  he's  ower  young.  What  he  needs  is 
to  come  to  gripples  with  raw,  immortal  truth  for  one 
moment.  What  he  needs  is  a  rod  an'  a  staff  to  com 
fort  him  —  an'  by  this  an'  that,"  he  breathed  through 
the  pipestem,  "  I'd  like  to  have  the  layin'  on  o'  it! " 
The  same  night  we  lost  Wickwire.  .  .  . 

Perhaps  you  can  see  now  how  hard  it  came  for  us 
to  believe,  as  we  hastened  on  his  rescue  toward  Coloo- 
tullah,  that  this  kind  of  a  man,  that  this  particular 
man,  had  fallen  the  victim  to  a  loathsome  vice. 

By  what  we  could  piece  out  from  Sutton's  report, 
at  the  time  of  the  accident,  Wickwire  had  never  drop 
ped  into  the  river  at  all.  He  must  have  landed  in  one 
of  the  empty  coal  barges  alongside  —  there  had  been 
one  missing  next  morning  which  later  was  picked  up 
near  the  Howrah  Bridge  —  and  so  reached  shore. 

"  He  got  hisself  shook  in  his  wits,"  said  the  captain, 
breaking  a  silence.  "Is  that  how  you  make  it?" 

"  Something  of  the  kind,"  I  agreed,  and  recalled  a 
lad  from  Milford  Haven  I  once  was  shipmates  with 
who  took  a  clip  over  the  head  from  a  falling  block 
and  for  a  month  thereafter  was  dumb,  though  other 
wise  hale  enough. 

"  It'd  be  an  almighty  clip  over  the  head  would  strike 
the  chief  dumb,"  said  Raff  simply  — "  or  anything  like 
it." 

Sutton  said  nothing. 

Meanwhile  we  went  plunging  on  through  rain-swept 
darkness.  I  never  knew  the  course  nor  the  place 
where  we  left  our  gharri  and  took  to  narrower  ways 
afoot,  but  here  the  nightmare  closed  in  upon  us.  We 
breathed  an  air  heavy  with  mortality,  on  pavements 
made  slimy  by  countless  naked  feet,  in  a  shaft,  in  a 
pit,  between  dank  walls.  Shapes  drifted  by  like 
sheeted  corpses,  peering,  floating  up,  melting  away; 
from  pools  and  eddies  of  lamplight  sinister  faces 


296       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

started  out  and  fingers  pointed  after  us.  For  we  had 
come  to  strange  waters,  the  teeming  backwaters  of 
the  city. 

Port  Said  has  its  tide  rips  if  you  like,  is  wickeder 
perhaps  in  its  hectic  way;  you  need  to  keep  to  sound 
ings  in  Singapore,  and  parts  of  Macao  and  Shanghai 
you  do  well  to  navigate  with  an  extra  lookout  and. 
pressing  business  somewhere  else.  But  Calcutta  at 
night  is  the  Sargasso  Sea.  There  you  wander  among 
the  other  derelicts,  helpless,  hopeless,  moving  always 
deeper  down  lost  channels,  uncharted,  fetid,  clogged 
with  infinite  suggestions  of  dim  horrors  — 

To  top  our  bewilderment,  the  captain  and  I  found 
ourselves  being  piloted  swiftly  through  this  welter, 
without  pause  or  fault,  by  alleys  and  reeking  courts, 
doubling  and  twisting.  We  dived  into  a  lurid, 
crowded  cavern  that  echoed  with  some  dismal  merry 
making  of  string  and  drum.  We  jostled  the  loungers 
in  a  low-caste  drinking  shop  and  pushed  on  to  a 
dovecote.  The  place  was  alive  with  twitterings  and 
shufflings.  Steps  fled  before  us  and  half-naked  bodies 
caromed  against  us  from  the  void  until  a  last  rush 
landed  us  on  the  floor  above  the  street. 

There  was  a  dusky  room  hung  with  blue  stuffs 
where  dragons  black  and  gold  crawled  and  ramped. 
It  ran  along  the  front  of  the  house  as  a  gallery,  but  it 
had  no  windows  —  only  a  row  of  shallow  cells,  so  to 
say,  divided  by  the  hangings.  Down  at  the  far  end 
low  lights  burned  hot  and  small  under  wreaths  of 
greasy  incense,  and  a  big,  green  joss  grinned  from  a 
niche.  He  was  fat  and  crass  and  ugly,  that  joss,  a  fit 
deity  for  such  a  den,  and  he  seemed  to  nod  and  to 
listen ! 

Perhaps  because  we  were  listening!  .  .  . 
"Whaur's  that  pipe?     Whaur's   that  pipe?     Boy, 
you  smoke  wallah,  whaur's  that  pipe  ?  "     A  voice  to 


THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER  297 

send  the  chill  into  your  marrow,  slab  and  dreary  and 
overlaid,  but  with  a  rasp  that  we  knew  and  would 
have  known  anywhere  on  earth,  or  under.  "Not  the 
silver  one,  ye  blistered  limb  — " 

Nobody  came;  nothing  stirred  among  the  curtains. 
Sutton  had  closed  the  door,  to  lean  there.  It  was 
very  still.  Except  for  the  leering  joss  and  the  mon 
strous  embroidered  things  on  the  walls  the  rooms 
showed  empty.  And  the  plaint  began  again,  monoto 
nous,  muffled: 

"  Whaur's  that  pipe  o'  mine?".  .  . 

Raff  was  first  to  break  the  spell  that  held  us.  With 
a  brusque  gesture  he  set  us  in  motion,  and  we  followed 
on  from  curtain  to  curtain  down  the  gallery,  and  at 
the  end  near  the  joss  we  found  him  we  sought.  He 
lay  propped  on  a  charpoy  in  a  nest  of  squab  blue 
cushions.  On  a  stand  beside  him  glowed  a  tiny  lamp, 
and  a  yellow  Eurasian  lad  was  tending  him  as  per 
haps  the  imps  tend  the  damned.  Evidently  the  pipe 
had  been  found ;  he  held  the  length  of  polished  bamboo 
ready  for  the  fuming  pellet,  and  he  raised  himself 
on  an  elbow  as  we  three  drew  silently  near  and 
stood  by.  "  Chief ! "  said  the  captain,  and  stopped 
dead. 

He  looked  up  at  us  then,  and  it  was  Chris  Wickwire, 
his  very  self.  He  looked  and  looked  and  made  no 
sign. 

I  think  I  might  have  been  less  shocked  to  see  some 
change,  some  altered  trait  to  veil  the  normal  image 
of  him.  But  there  was  none.  He  was  the  same,  the 
same  weather-beaten  old  tinker  with  the  lean,  long 
face  and  hard-set  jaw  and  the  dour  eye  that  could 
quell  a  mutinous  stokehole  at  a  glance.  In  the  midst 
of  this  evil  and  fantastic  luxury  he  still  wore  the  same 
old  shiny  alpaca  too,  his  regular  shore-going  and  Sun 
day  garb,  and  a  ragged  bit  of  ribbon  at  his  throat. 
Somehow  that  cut  me  all  up. 


298       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

"  Wickwire !  "  began  Raff  again.  "  Come  away  out 
of  that.  What  are  y'  doin'  here  ?  " 

No  answer;  the  smoker's  concern  was  for  his  pipe. 

"Chief,  d'you  hear  me?  You're  needed  on  board." 
The  captain  shook  him  gently,  and  then  not  so  gently. 

"  Drop  it.  We've  come  to  bring  you  away.  For 
any  sakes  quit  that  devilment,  now,  will  y' !  " .  .  . 

The  figure  on  the  couch  made  a  languid  effort. 

"  I'll  grant  ye  —  I'll  grant  ye  the  siller's  weel  enough 
for  a  change.  Aye,  it  makes  a  change."  He  wagged 
his  head  at  us  confidentially.  "  But  the  bamboo's  the 
best.  It  smokes  sweet  —  varra  sweet  it  smokes.  An* 
that  unhandy  thief  of  a  boy — "  He  paused  to  draw 
lazily  at  the  mouthpiece  and  loosed  a  slow  gout  of 
vapor.  "  He's  always  mislayin'  it  somewhere  — " 

Raff  cried  a  round  oath  and  snatched  the  pipe  from 
him;  flung  it  down.  But  the  chief  only  sank  back 
among  the  pillows  and  closed  his  eyes,  even  smiling 
a  little  to  himself,  as  one  accustomed  to  the  vagaries 
of  phantom  guests.  .  .  . 

For  the  last  few  moments  he  had  forgotten  our 
appointed  guide  and  leader.  He  had  been  standing 
by,  a  stricken  witness,  but  with  a  common  impulse 
the  captain  and  I  turned  on  him,  and  he  started  from 
contemplation  of  his  handiwork  as  if  he  had  pulled  a 
secret  wire. 

"  You  brought  us  here,"  roared  Raff,  accusing. 

"I  —  I  didn't  think  he  was  as  bad  as  this." 

"  Bad !  He's  crazy  as  a  coot.  What  were  you  go 
ing  to  do  about  it?" 

The  flurry  of  our  passage  had  begun  to  draw  in  be 
hind  us  in  a  back-lash  wave.  The  house  seemed  to 
hum  under  our  feet.  A  door  opened  on  a  gust  of  mut 
tering  voices.  Down  by  the  entrance  to  the  gallery  a 
knot  of  vague  shadows  had  gathered.  It  occurred  to 
me,  and  time  enough  you  might  suppose,  that  we  vere 
very  far  from  possible  aid  in  a  region  where  visitors 


THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER   299 

are  a  poor  risk.  And  suddenly,  out  of  space  for  all  I 
knew,  appeared  a  little  noiseless  silken  apparition  of  a 
Chinese  who  regarded  us  from  twin  lenses  with  a 
phosphorescent  gleam. 

It  was  of  a  piece  with  the  whole  mysterious  side 
of  the  affair  that  he  should  address  Sutton  a  screed  in 
the  vernacular  and  that  the  mate  should  answer.  I 
was  long  past  wonder  —  anything  might  happen 
now  —  and  I  only  noted  that  our  companion  could  be 
wheedling  and  plausible  in  more  than  one  language. 
But  Raff  seemed  curiously  put  out  and  broke  upon 
their  chatter. 

"  Friend  of  yours?"  he  rumbled. 

Sutton  span  around  nervously. 

"  He  —  he  says  we've  got  to  go  away  quick.  He 
says  we've  no  business  here." 

"  Tell  him  sure  thing,  soon  as  we  get  our  friend." 

"  But  he  says  —  he  says  Chris  is  his  lodger,  in  a 
private  house,  and  mustn't  be  disturbed." 

"Oh,  he  does,  hey?  Well,  we'll  give  him  a  chance 
to  explain  to  the  police  in  another  minute !  " 

"That's  no  good  either." 

"  Does  he  figger  we  can't  get  no  police?" 

"  Tisn't  that,  sir.     The  police  couldn't  help." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Why,  it  seems  breaking  no  law.  There's  no  bar 
to  private  smoking.  I've  been  trying  to  get  around 
him  somehow,  but  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  anything 
we  can  do.  He  says  the  white  man  has  a  right  to 
stay  here,  and  he  has  a  right  to  keep  him." .  .  . 

"  Keep  him !    Well,  by  God !  " 

"  I  suppose  Chris  must  have  a  little  money  banked 
somewhere,"  continued  the  mate  miserably.  "  Li 
Chwan'll  never  let  go  of  him  while  it  lasts." 

"  And  you  mean  we  got  to  leave  him  after  all  — 
leave  the  ol'  chief  to  rot  where  he  lays?" 

"  Unless  he  wants  to  —  to  come  away  of  his  own 


300       WHERE   THE    PAVEMENT    ENDS 
motion,"  stammered  Sutton.     "  I  thought  he'd  come 
quite  easy  when  he  saw  the  three  of  us.    But  he  won't. 
He  doesn't  want  to  —  and  that's  the  dreadful  fact. 
And  —  and  —  only  look  at  him  now !  " 

His  fascinated  gaze  had  coasted  back  to  the  face  on 
the  cushions.  It  might  have  been  cut  from  tan  marble, 
impassive  and  stern,  and  we  saw  what  he  meant  — 
though  perhaps  not  as  vividly  as  he  saw  —  the 
wretched  incongruous  tragedy  of  such  a  face  in  such  a 
setting. 

"  So  this  is  the  end  of  your  grand  scheme ! "  said 
Captain  Raff  bitterly. 

Well,  you  see,  it  came  rather  rough  on  a  superior 
young  optimist.  For  the  very  first  time  in  his  life,  I 
suppose,  Sutton  found  himself  called  to  account  with 
out  a  chance  either  to  smile  or  to  sulk,  to  palter  or  to 
play  at  clever  tricks.  Whatever  his  share  in  the  un 
happy  business  had  been  —  and  we  had  never  fully 
fathomed  it,  you  remember  —  he  was  facing  the  result 
of  that  folly  without  the  possibility  of  disguise  or  ex 
cuse  or  easy  escape.  Here  was  actual,  physical  hell 
to  equal  Wickwire's  own  preaching  —  the  murky  depth 
of  it.  And  here  was  Wickwire  himself,  condemned  to 
the  dreariest  fate  ever  devised  by  unamusing  devils. 
And  who  to  blame?  .  .  . 

What  he  suffered  we  had  a  guess  even  then.  Being 
the  sort  of  chap  he  was,  he  fought  a  very  pretty  little 
fight  with  himself  in  that  moment  —  which  we  might 
have  guessed  as  well.  His  face  was  gridironed,  studded 
with  sweat,  and  his  hands  clenched  and  opened.  He 
turned  here  and  there,  seeking  the  careless  word  or  the 
flippant  gesture,  some  relief  to  an  intolerable  sense  of 
guilt.  But  writhe  as  he  liked,  his  darting  glances  al 
ways  painfully  returned  to  the  still  victim  on  the  char- 
poy. 

The  Chinese  touched  his  arm.  , 


THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER    301 

"  No,"  he  quavered.  "  No  —  no,  by  gum,  no !  It's 
not  the  end.  Keep  off  of  me ! "  Like  a  man  who 
clears  himself  of  a  vileness,  he  slung  Li  Chwan  across 
the  room.  "  And  you  — "  he  cried  to  us  " —  hoist  the 
chief  up  out  of  that,  and  lively.  There's  a  way  yet  if 
we  take  the  straight  of  it.  Grab  him !  " 

We  responded  —  just  as  we  had  hesitated  beiore  — 
to  some  subtle  quality  behind  the  words,  and  while  we 
were  gathering  the  limp  body  Sutton  himself  was  lay 
ing  wide  hold  on  the  draperies  across  the  wall.  They 
ripped  and  swayed,  swirled  down  about  him  so  that 
he  stood  waist  deep  wrestling  with  figurative  monsters 
until  the  whole  blue  screen  tore  away  and  revealed  the 
glass  partition  which  closed  the  end  of  the  gallery. 
Solid  at  the  base,  it  was  latticed  above  with  small 
panes,  and,  taking  the  straight  way  with  a  vengeance, 
he  flung  himself  literally  and  bodily  against  it.  The 
jingling  crash  brought  a  howl  from  the  stairhead,  but 
he  broke  a  gap  with  his  bleeding  fists,  wrenched  out  the 
crosspieces.  ...  A  spatter  of  warm  rain  blew  in  upon 
us. 

"  There's  only  the  street  below !  "  I  gasped. 

"  Out !  "  was  Sutton's  crisp  order.  "  Out  —  and 
through  —  and  over  with  you !  " 

We  had  no  choice;  his  furious  energy  drove  us. 
Wickwire  hung  a  dead  weight  in  our  arms,  but  we 
propped  him  on  the  jagged  sill  and  scrambled  after, 
any  fashion.  Clinging  there,  we  had  one  last  glimpse 
into  the  gallery  behind  us,  set  like  a  stage  for  our 
benefit. 

We  saw  the  little  Chinese  come  on  with  uplifted 
knife,  spitting  and  glaring  like  a  wildcat,  saw  the 
knobbed,  bare  shoulders  and  coppery,  brute  faces  of  his 
crew,  saw  Sutton  turning  back.  He  had  no  weapon, 
but  he  armed  himself.  He  dragged  the  big  green  joss 
from  its  niche,  lamps,  incense,  and  all,  twirled  it  over 
his  head,  exultant,  transformed  with  berserk  fury, 


302      WHERE  THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

shouting  some  free  battle  cry  of  his  own  —  and  met 
them.  Thereafter  the  place  went  dark  in  a  babble  of 
shrieks,  and  we  dropped  like  slugs  from  a  garden  wall. 

So  we  brought  Chris  Wickwire  home  again  —  what 
was  left  of  him.  .  .  . 

There  was  small  joy  in  that  homecoming,  you  can 
figure.  Dawn  broke  weeping  as  we  were  hurrying 
aboard  with  our  unconscious  burden.  The  reaches  of 
the  river  were  beginning  to  show  slaty  downstream 
and  a  little  damp  wind  running  with  the  day  was  like  a 
chill  after  fever,  unfriendly  and  comfortless.  The  lamp 
in  the  chief  engineer's  cabin  had  paled  from  saffron  to 
citrine  in  the  morning  light  when  the  officers  of  the 
Moung  Poh  took  stock  of  themselves  once  more,  and 
of  each  other  and  an  ill  prospect. 

Wickwire  had  neither  spoken  nor  stirred,  though  his 
breathing  was  regular  and  he  seemed  to  have  taken  no 
immediate  hurt  from  his  fall  except  the  reopening  of 
an  old,  ragged  wound  above  the  ear.  Captain  Raff  had 
done  the  bandaging:  he  stood  back  from  the  last  neat 
pleat. 

"A  clip  over  the  head,  as  you  say,"  he  observed, 
addressing  me  pointedly  while  he  wiped  his  clumsy 
great  hands  that  yet  had  wrought  as  tenderly  as  a 
woman's.  "And  pretty  lucky  at  that.  H'll  do  well 
enough  now  till  we  get  a  doctor.  You  better  dig  out 
after  one  yourself  —  try  the  Port  Office ;  they'll  have  to 
be  notified  anyway,  I  judge,  when  he  wakes." 

We  looked  at  the  shell  of  a  man  on  the  bunk.  "  It's 
got  to  be  the  — the  hospital,  then?"  I  asked. 

I  believe  that's  what  they  call  it,"  said  Raff  gruffly. 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  put  in  Sutton  very  quietly,  "  but 
we'll  notify  no  office  and  no  doctor  either  —  not  till 
we  sheer  have  to."  .  .  . 

The  mate  was  planted  by  the  door  where  he  had 
been  waiting  in  silence  while  we  two  ministered  to  the 
chief.  Raff  had  ignored  him  since  our  return,  but  he 


THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER    303 

eyed  him  now  sternly  up  and  down.  Most  people 
would  have  eyed  him  so,  for  he  made  rather  an  appall 
ing  figure,  streaked  and  stained,  with  his  wounds  half 
dried  upon  him,  a  raking  cut  along  one  cheek  and  his 
coat  hanging  in  shreds. 

"What  in  Hull  t'  Halifax  are  you  talkin'  about?" 

Sutton  drew  from  his  pocket  a  certain  familiar  ob 
ject,  a  small,  black-bound  volume.  "  There  was  a  chap 
in  a  book  I  read,  sir — " 

The  captain  regarded  him,  purpling. 

"  Is  this  more  of  your  wonderful  notions?" 

"  It's  my  plan  to  save  Chris  Wickwire,"  returned 
the  mate  firmly,  "and  I'm  bound  to  try  it  on.  Just 
as  it  says  here.  '  Sirs,'  it  says,  '  sirs,  I  will  practice 
on  this  drunken  man  — '  " 

He  held  out  the  shabby  octavo  and,  considering  it 
again  with  heightened  amazement,  of  a  sudden  I  knew 
where  I  had  seen  it  before. 

"  Why,"  I  cried,  "  that's  the  Book  you  got  for  the 
chief.  I  can  tell  from  the  gilt  cross  on  the  cover. 
That's  Wickwire's  Bible !  " 

"  It  is  the  book  I  got  for  the  chief,"  he  said  slowly, 
making  plain  the  case  against  himself,  "  and  it  has  a 
cross  on  the  cover.  But  it's  no  Bible.  Only  an  old 
collection  of  plays  I  bought  to  gammon  him  with. 
Shakespeare  wrote  it. 

"  There  was  no  cover  to  it  either,  so  I  bought  an 
old  cover  off  a  hymn  book  and  pasted  it  over.  You 
can  see  for  yourselves  —  the  cross  is  upside  down." 
And,  in  fact,  that  we  might  miss  nothing  he  showed 
us  the  cover,  wrong  way  with  the  pages.  "  I  remem 
ber  the  chief,  taking  lessons  from  me  but  having  only 
the  cross  to  go  by,  d'y'see  —  the  chief  used  always  to 
hold  the  book  wrong  side  up.  I  remember,"  he  added 
with  an  odd  smile,  quite  mirthless  — "  I  remember  how 
I  laughed.  I  used  to  think  it  funny." 

Someway  that  made  the  captain  froth.     Since  our 


304       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 
invasion  of  Colootullah  he  had  been  increasingly  rigid 
toward  the  mate,  and  here  he  broke  out. 

"  So  we've  had  nothin'  but  your  damn'  lyin'  tricks 
from  the  start !  All  the  time  you  was  readin'  to  him  — " 

"Only  gammon,  sir.  I  used  to  experiment  on  him 
with  choice  bits  —  calling  'em  truth  and  Scripture." 

"  And  now  you're  after  more  fool  games  of  the  same 
kind!  Can't  you  look  what's  come  of  'em?  Look 
there !  "  He  pointed  to  the  stark  figure. 

"  I  see  what's  come,  sir,"  said  Sutton,  and  though 
he  was  white  under  his  stains  he  never  flinched.  "  And 
Wickwire,  he  saw  what  would  come.  He  was  trying 
to  stop  me  the  night  I  dropped  him  into  the  river  — 
when  we  quarreled.  Because,  d'y'see,  from  fooling 
with  the  works  of  life  just  to  learn  how  they're  made 
I'd  begun  fooling  with  the  works  of  hell.  And  he  had 
found  me  out." 

"  Ah,"  said  Raff,  with  one  of  his  rare  flashes.  "  That 
was  how  you  knew  the  road  to  Li  Chwan's ! " 

"  To  Li  Chwan's  —  and  —  other  places.  I've  been 
hitting  it  pretty  regular  for  six  months  or  so.  The 
chief  tried  to  save  me,  but  I  wouldn't  hearken,  and 
there,  as  you  say  —  there's  the  result.  It's  just  as  if 
he'd  done  it  all  as  a  sacrifice,  to  show  me.  It's  just 
as  if  —  as  if  he'd  paid  for  mine  with  the  price  of  his 
own  immortal  soul !  "  ... 

We  stared  at  him,  a  tattered  ruin  but  an  upstanding 
youngster,  and  we  could  sense  no  flaw  in  him  now.  He 
had  come  to  grips  with  raw  truth  for  once  without  fail 
ing  —  not  without  a  falter,  you  understand,  for  he  had 
to  put  aside  a  boy's  pride  and  a  last  illusion  in  him 
self —  but  clear-eyed,  the  straight  way,  as  every  man 
likes  to  think  he  might  have  done  in  his  own  youth. 

"  Well,"  said  Raff  at  last.  "  What's  your  notion?  " 
Sutton  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"  You  know,  sir,  the  chief  never  took  any  note  of 
time.  One  day  or  another  —  one  month  or  another,  it 


THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER    305 

was  all  alike  to  him.  Well,  here  it  is:  Why  can't  we 
strike  out  these  seven  weeks  and  three  days  from  his 
memory  —  as  if  they  never  had  been?  We're  fixed 
just  as  we  were  when  we  lost  him.  He's  in  his  own 
bed,  the  ship's  in  the  same  berth,  just  coaled :  same 
weather,  same  crew,  same  folk  about  him  —  same 
everything.  He  wakes  up  —  wouldn't  he  think  the 
whole  mess  had  been  a  dream?  .  .  .  Wouldn't  he? 
Coudn't  we  make  him,  just  as  they  did  with  the  Johnny 
here  ? "  He  hammered  the  book  for  emphasis. 
"  '  Would  not  the  beggar  then  -forget  himself? '  " 

We  winked  as  it  burst  upon  us.  Here  was  one  beg 
gar  who  had  forgotten  himself,  anyway:  his  vanity, 
his  posing,  his  weakness,  in  the  fervor  of  a  real  idea. 

"  Perhaps  there's  something  in  make-believe  after 
all  —  some  merit.  Perhaps  it's  got  some  truth  in  it 
too.  It  mightn't  work,  but  I  feel  it  must  and  will.  I 
got  the  tip  from  the  very  book  I  gammoned  him  with, 
from  the  very  passage  he  must  have  marked  himself 
at  random  —  d'y'see?  And  if  he  should  come  right  — " 

"Whist!"  breathed  the  captain.  "He's  stirrin' 
now ! " 

The  lank  form  on  the  bunk  had  moved.  The  band 
aged  head  turned,  and  Chris  Wickwire  looked  up  from 
his  pillow.  His  gaze  traveled  slowly  over  the  bare, 
familiar  details  of  the  cabin,  the  racks  and  lockers,  the 
deck  beams  above,  the  panels  on  the  bulkhead,  his  own 
spare  garments  on  their  hooks  —  passed  over  our 
huddled  group  by  the  door  and  rested  at  the  open  port, 
its  brass  rim  shining  with  the  new  daylight.  He  lay 
so  for  a  time,  tossed  a  little  restlessly,  and  seemed  to 
seek  something.  And  then  — 

"  Whaur's  that  pipe?"  he  muttered. 

Our  hearts  stood  still.  .  .  . 

"Whaur's  that  blisterin'  pipe?"  he  demanded,  and 
raised  himself  with  an  effort,  groped  along  the  shelf 
beside  him,  found  what  he  wanted  by  the  tobacco  jar, 


306       WHERE   THE    PAVEMENT    ENDS 

and  proceeded  leisurely  to  ram  and  to  charge  —  his  old 

clay  cutty! 

Raff  had  dragged  Sutton  and  his  tatters  into  the 
thwart-ship  passage,  out  of  sight,  but  I  was  clinging 
in  the  doorway  when  the  dour  old  eye  nailed  me. 

"Feeling  better,  chief?"  I  managed  somehow  to 
gulp.  "  You  got  quite  a  bump  last  night.  Your  head'll 
be  sore  for  a  bit  —  and  —  and  the  captain  will  want 
to  know  right  away  if  the  bandage  is  comfortable." 

He  considered  me  a  space. 

"  Whaur's  the  mate  ?  "  he  asked,  and  added  quickly : 
"Did  he  go  ashore?" 

"  No,  sir.  He  stayed  to  tend  you.  He  says  he's 
lost  his  taste  for  shore  leave,  anyhow."  I  gasped,  for 
Button's  hand  had  caught  mine  in  the  passage,  and  it 
nearly  crushed  my  fingers.  "  He  says  —  he  says  he'll 
wait  till  you  can  go  with  him  if  you  like." 

Wickwire  paused  as  he  was  lighting  his  pipe. 

"  Does  he  say  that?  "  he  queried,  in  a  tone  you  would 
never  have  thought  possible  on  those  grim  lips.  "  Fetch 
him  here  to  me,  will  ye  now?" 

I  stumbled  away  blindly.  When  I  returned  some 
minutes  later  he  was  propped  quite  comfortably  at  the 
end  of  the  bunk. 

"  Beg  pardon,  chief — "  I  began. 

"Hey?" 

"  Mr.  Sutton  can't  come  just  now.  I  —  I  didn't  care 
to  disturb  him  — " 

"How's  that?" 

"Well,  it  seems  —  the  fact  is  —  I  —  I  left  him  in  his 
cabin  on  his  knees,  and  it  looked  —  anyway  it  seemed 
to  me  as  if  he  might,  perhaps,  be  —  praying !  " 

For  the  first  time  in  my  knowledge  of  him,  his 
normal  self,  the  chief  smiled,  and  it  was  like  the 
struggling  ray  of  early  sun  that  pierces  the  gray  dawn. 
I  should  have  left  him  then  with  that  last  glint  of  a 
picture  to  close  the  affair,  and  with  Sutton's  last  word 


THE  PRACTICING  OF  CHRISTOPHER    307 

of  it  in  my  mind.  "  He's  forgotten !  "  he  had  cried  to 
me,  in  a  clear  bell  note.  "  We  did  make  him  forget !  " 

I  say  I  should  have  gone  away  with  that  image  and 
that  word.  But  just  at  the  instant  I  saw  a  curious 
thing  —  and  heard  another.  From  the  spot  where  Sut- 
ton  had  dropped  it,  Chris  Wickwire  had  retrieved  the 
book.  He  opened  the  volume  on  his  knee  and  turned 
it  around  and  over  with  a  gesture  entirely  casual. 

"  Aye,"  he  said,  as  he  settled  himself  contentedly  on 
his  pillow.  "Aye  —  well,  I'll  just  sit  here  with  this 
for  a  while.  It's  a  grand  book,  beyond  the  pen  o'  men 
an'  angels;  I  often  wunner  how  I  got  along  without 
one.  Ye've  no  notion  what  comfort  I've  found  just  to 
sit  an'  haud  in  my  twa  hands  such  a  staff  o'  immortal 
truth !  "  .  .  . 

Had  he  forgotten?  Had  he  anything  or  any  need 
to  forget?  I  could  not  tell:  but  this  I  know  and  this 
I  saw  while  he  twinkled  at  me  through  a  puff  of 
smoke  before  I  fled  from  the  doorway,  that  the  book 
on  his  knee  as  he  turned  it  and  rippled  its  worn 
pages  —  the  book,  I  say,  was  right  side  up! 


AMOK 

MERRY  saw  how  the  thing  was  done  one 
steamy  hot  day  at  Palembang,  and  he  saw 
quite  stark  and  plain.  He  had  a  first  bal 
cony  seat  to  the  performance,  as  you  might  say,  for 
he  was  leaning  from  a  raised  and  shaded  veranda  on 
the  river  street  when  it  happened  just  below  him. 
Also,  by  some  chance  or  other,  he  was  almost  com 
pletely  sober  at  the  time.  And  this  is  the  thing  the 
sobered  Merry  saw: 

From  a  doorway  just  across  sprang  suddenly  out 
and  down  to  the  muddy  level  a  little  stout-shouldered 
half-naked  Malay  with  a  face  mottled  and  bluish,  with 
foam  on  his  lip  a  creese  in  his  hand.  Forthright  he 
drove  into  the  crowd  like  a  reaper  into  standing  grain. 
His  blade  rose  and  fell  in  a  crimson  flicker,  and  he 
strode  over  the  bodies  of  two  victims  before  the  peo 
ple  were  aware  of  him  and  fled  streaming  through  al 
leys  and  bolt  holes.  Then  the  terrible  hoarse  cry  of 
the  man  hunt  began  to  muster,  and  furious  swart 
figures  to  start  back  out  of  the  mass  and  to  line  the 
course  with  bright  points  of  steel.  The  murderer 
neither  paused  nor  turned  aside,  but  held  straight  on, 
hewing  steadily  and  silently,  until  the  weapons  brist 
led  thick  about  him  and  he  went  down  at  last  like  a 
malignant  slug  under  a  tumble  of  stinging  wasps. 

Merry  resumed  breathing  with  a  conscious  effort 
and  loosed  his  clutch  of  the  balcony  rail.  .  .  . 

"What  —  was  that?"  he  wanted  to  know. 

A  stolid  and  rather  shabby  client  of  the  Dutch 
marine  persuasion  drew  stolidly  on  a  cheroot  and 

308 


AMOK  309 

craned  over  to  count  the  huddled  bundles  that  marked 
the  madman's  path. 

"  Oh,  it  iss  nothing,"  observed  this  judicious  per 
son,  who  might  have  been  mate,  or  such,  of  a  country 
ship.  "  He  got  four  only.  Sometimes  they  kill 
eight  —  twelve  —  even  more,  till  they  get  themselves 
killed.  That  fellow  was  just  a  common  fellow." 

"But  why  —  what  was  he  after?" 

"  Oh,  it  iss  just  going  amok,  you  know.  That  iss 
a  habit  wit'  the  Malay  folk.  I  have  seen  them  often." 

Still  Mr.  Merry  desired  light. 

"How  can  I  say?"  returned  the  other.  "A  native 
iss  always  a  native,  except  when  he  iss  only  a  man 
an'  a  dam'  fool.  Perhaps  his  woman  has  gone  bad 
on  him  or  he  has  played  his  last  copper  doit  at  gam 
bling.  Maybe  he  has  crazied  himself  wit'  opium  or 
bhang.  Maybe  he  iss  just  come  to  a  finish,  you 
know?" 

"  A  finish  ?  "  stammered  Merry. 

"  Where  he  has  no  more  use :  where  he  get  sorry 
wit'  the  world  an'  wants  to  die  quick.  So  he  takes  his 
knife  an'  runs  amok  to  stab  so  many  people  as  he  can, 
an'  he  don't  care  a  dam'  if  only  he  makes  a  big  smash. 
It  is  like  a  sport,  truly." 

"  Yes,"  said  Merry.     "  Very  like  a  sport." 

Thereupon  he  gave  pious  thanks  that  he  owned  no 
share  in  the  fantastic  human  chemistry  that  could  pro 
duce  such  results.  It  was  the  sharpest  reminder  of 
essential  racial  differences.  It  made  him  feel  sick  and 
shaky,  and  since  he  knew  only  the  simple  cure  for  ills 
of  body  as  of  mind,  he  applied  himself  so  earnestly 
that  within  half  an  hour  he  felt  nothing  at  all,  and  the 
proprietor  of  the  verandaed  house  on  the  river  street 
had  him  thrown  into  a  barge,  where  he  slept  with  the 
flies  crawling  over  his  beard. 

Afterward  he  recovered  sufficiently  to  get  himself 
out  of  Palembang,  and  after  that  out  of  Muntok  and 


310      WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

Batavia  and  Banjermassin  and  other  places  where  he 
had  no  ostensible  business  to  be.  On  his  road  he  con 
tinued  to  encounter  divers  strange  sights  and  incidents 
peculiar  to  the  latitude  and  the  social  layers  through 
which  he  moved ;  but  the  affair  was  a  warning  to  him. 
He  had  been  shocked.  He  had  been  very  deeply 
shocked,  and  he  was  always  careful  never  to  let  him 
self  get  quite  so  sober  again  —  a  development  erf  the 
simple  system  whereby  he  avoided  too  vivid  a  view 
of  local  color  while  he  wandered  on  —  aimlessly,  as 
well  as  anyone  might  judge  —  farther  and  farther 
downhill  over  the  curve  of  the  earth. 

Now,  it  has  been  observed  that  a  chap  who  starts 
downhill  through  the  Archipelago  commonly  comes 
to  an  end  of  his  journeying  soon,  and  sometimes  even 
sooner.  The  climate  affords  what  you  may  call  a 
ready  accelerator,  and  so  do  the  fever  and  the  sun  and 
the  quality  of  the  drink  and  other  amusements  prevail 
ing  in  those  parts.  And  often,  if  his  steps  stray  a  bit 
off  the  beaten  track,  he  is  likely  to  meet  some  kindly 
guide,  black  or  brown  or  even  white,  perhaps,  who 
bobs  up  in  a  quiet  corner  to  point  out  a  short  cut.  But 
though  Merry  took  no  heed  of  his  steps  in  the  least, 
and  though  he  went  quartering  very  far  wide  on  that 
great  thoroughfare  which  reaches  from  Singapore  to 
Torres  Strait  along  the  midrib  of  the  world,  yet  he 
kept  on  going  for  quite  a  while :  and  the  reasons  there 
for  were  curious  and  well  worthy  of  note. 

To  begin  with,  he  had  brought  along  a  fair  con 
stitution  and  a  stomach  that  was  not  so  much  a 
stomach  as  a  chemical  retort  —  an  advantage  to  be 
envied  by  kings.  He  carried  a  loose,  limp,  and  rub 
bery  frame  well  suited  to  the  uses  of  a  long-distance 
drunkard.  He  was  by  nature  as  mild  and  harmless  a 
creature  as  ever  tangled  himself  in  a  fool's  quest.  And 
finally  he  owned  a  gift,  a  certain  special  personal  gift 
of  the  kind  that  tends  universally  to  maintain  a  fixed 


AMOK  311 

percentage  for  the  man  alive  over  what  he  is  worth 
when  dead. 

Such  a  provision  is  not  so  easily  come  by.  Very 
able  citizens  have  lacked  it.  Many  an  eminent  ex 
plorer,  many  a  devoted  pioneer,  has  found  his  emi 
nence  and  his  devotion  outbalanced  in  the  primitive 
scale  by  the  value  of  his  trouser  buttons.  It  is  sin 
gular  to  reflect  what  potential  marvels,  what  captains 
and  leaders  among  men,  have  been  knifed  for  the 
beers;  or  elsewhere  even  broiled  and  eaten  and  com 
plained  of  at  dessert  —  some  being  tough  and  some 
lacking  flavor. 

Merry  was  none  of  these  sorts,  but  he  had  an  odd 
juggling  knack  of  his  fingers. 

It  was  a  sketchy  enough  knack  at  best.  Heaven 
knew  where  he  had  acquired  it,  just  as  Heaven  was 
left  the  responsibility  of  knowing  most  facts  about 
Merry,  anyhow.  And  certainly  that  was  never  dis 
covered —  no  more  nearly  than  his  proper  name,  nor 
the  meaning  of  the  upright  wrinkle  between  his  brows 
like  the  dent  of  an  ax,  nor  what  conceivable  things  he 
had  done  or  been  or  wanted  that  had  landed  him 
among  the  islands. 

Only  there  you  were.  Give  the  fellow  a  wisp  of  silk 
and  some  brass  bracelets  or  mango  seeds,  or  such,  and 
he  would  squat  by  the  wayside  or  in  the  shade  of  a  hut 
or  the  cabin  flares  of  a  native  prau  and  proceed  to 
work  miracles. 

He  could  make  an  egg  to  vanish  and  pluck  it  again 
from  your  left  ear,  and  he  could  mold  a  kerchief  be 
tween  his  big,  soft  hands  until  it  produced  a  live  lizard, 
which  presently  turned  to  a  tame  lorikeet,  which  sat 
up  and  dratted  your  eyes  in  good  set  Malay.  He  drew 
chinking  coins  out  of  space.  He  stood  a  plate  on  his 
nose  and  caught  it  on  his  calf,  kept  six  rings  accurately 
flying,  grew  flowers  from  a  paper  spill  and  butterflies 
from  a  kanari  nut,  and  on  occasion  —  if  he  was  not 


312       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT    ENDS 

absolutely  petrified  and  could  still  see  the  mark  — 
would  even  undertake  to  sink  half  a  dozen  daggers 
within  the  space  of  a  hand  print  on  the  opposite  wall : 
and  would  do  it,  too,  with  the  utmost  speed  and  pre 
cision. 

Accomplishments  of  this  kind  were  his  passport, 
good  any  day  for  a  lift,  a  lodging,  or  a  load  from  the 
most  unlikely  people,  for  they  set  him  apart  in  cult  of 
conjurers  and  jesters  that  has  been  privileged  always 
and  everywhere. 

And  so,  past  all  the  usual  land-falls  and  long  past 
the  tables  of  mortality  for  persons  of  his  class  and  con 
dition,  he  did  keep  going  on.  He  kept  on  after  his 
clothes  had  fallen  to  ruin  and  his  face  had  turned  the 
tint  of  seaweed;  after  he  had  lost  most  of  the  pre 
tensions  of  a  white  man,  his  shoes  and  his  shirt.  And 
in  due  course  he  arrived  at  Zimballo's,  where  he  lost 
the  little  property  left  to  him  and  the  shreds  of  his 
pride,  which  every  man  has  whether  aware  of  it  or  not 
and  which  he  loses  last  of  all.  .  .  . 

Here  again  was  an  eastern  city  —  not  Palembang, 
though  between  two  winks  you  scarce  could  tell  it 
from  that  or  a  dozen  other  ports:  the  same  hive  of 
mats  and  slats,  of  fishing  poles  and  cigar  boxes,  like  a 
metropolis  devised  by  ingenious  small  children ;  with 
the  same  smells  which  remain  the  only  solid  mem 
orials;  with  the  same  swarm  of  pullulating  humanity 
and  the  same  crowding  junks  and  praus,  and  now  and 
then  the  far-venturing  ships  of  recognized  flags,  some 
times  as  many  as  two  or  three  at  once ;  with  the  same 
yellows  and  browns  and  clays  against  shifting  greens 
and  eternal  distant  blues  —  all  hazed  with  the  same 
molten  light. 

But  in  its  own  ways  the  city  is  different  and  remark 
able.  It  is  a  falling-off  place.  It  is  the  eddy  in  a 
stream.  At  its  roadstead  the  trickle  of  traffic  turns 
back  and  sheers  aside  from  a  shallow  sea  of  uncharted 


AMOK  313 

and  unprofitable  dangers :  one  of  the  big,  blank  spaces. 

It  has  some  scores  of  Europeans,  who  linger  as 
official  or  accidental  units  in  the  population.  It  has 
some  hundreds  of  Eurasians,  who  occur  as  improper 
fractions  of  varying  hue.  It  has  a  season  of  the  east 
monsoon  when  there  is  no  longer  any  steaminess  in 
the  heat,  nor  any  muddiness  underfoot,  nor  any  escape 
from  pestilential  wind  and  pervading  dust:  dust  of 
the  roads  and  dust  of  the  seared  rice  fields,  and 
crumbled  refuse  heaps  and  dust  of  a  scorching  hinter 
land;  until  a  man's  soul  is  changed  in  him,  as  you 
might  say,  to  a  portion  of  immortal  thirst. 

And  also  by  necessary  logic  it  has  Zimballo's. 

To  this  institution,  one  evening  in  the  dry  weather, 
came  Mr.  Merry,  making  what  speed  he  could  and 
clinging  to  the  handrail  all  the  way  up  from  the  land 
ing  while  he  caught  his  breath  and  stared  painfully 
about. 

Below  the  point  he  saw  the  harbor  like  a  sheet  of 
crinkled  copper.  Overhead  arched  a  coppery  dome. 
To  seaward  he  could  gaze  down  a  vista  of  rocky 
and  deserted  islets  resembling  slag  heaps,  where 
the  sinking  sun  showed  like  a  red-hot  spot  in  the 
huge,  coppered  oven  in  which  he  found  himself.  He 
had  been  traveling  since  dawn ;  he  had  been  without 
liquor  for  something  like  twelve  hours;  and  as  he  re 
sumed  his  struggle  toward  the  clutter  of  tinroofed 
sheds  and  arbors  which  marked  his  goal  he  achieved 
in  his  mind  a  dim  but  quite  definite  conviction  —  that 
hell  could  hold  few  surprises  for  him  now,  and  earth 
none  at  all.  .  .  . 

But  therein  he  erred. 

"Where  is  the  price?  "  demanded  Zimballo,  and  when 
Merry  laid  down  a  single  piece  of  silver  the  interna 
tional  ruffian  shook  his  crop  head.  "  No  go,"  he  stated. 

"  It's  all  I  have,"  said  Merry. 

"  It  ain'  enough,"  decided  Zimballo,  eying  him. 


314       WHERE   THE    PAVEMENT   ENDS 

In  fact,  Mr.  Merry  made  an  odd  figure  of  a  customer. 
He  wore  a  coolie's  grass  hat  with  a  pointed  crown. 
About  his  body  hung  an  old  duck  jacket,  so  rotted 
with  rust  and  mildew  as  to  lend  scant  anchorage  for 
one  brass  safety  pin.  His  feet  were  graced  with  a 
pair  of  aboriginal  sandals.  It  was  true  he  still  re 
tained  the  essential  garment,  as  the  frayed  ends  above 
his  ankles  were  there  to  prove.  But  for  political 
reasons  he  had  swathed  himself  mid-about  with  a 
striped  Malay  sarong,  which  is  half  a  skirt  and  half  a 
sash:  whereat  Zimballo  took  purpled  offense. 

This  rogue,  himself  a  mongrel  grown  fat  in  the  slums 
of  three  continents,  held  starchy  notions  on  the  sub 
ject  of  pants. 

"  A  drink,"  he  said  with  intention,  "  will  be  half  a 
dollar.  If  you  don'  got  it,  get  out.  And  if  you  do 
got  it,  pay  quick  and  get  out  any'ow !  " 

"I  —  I  haven't  it ;  no.  But  for  any  sakes,  man," 
gasped  Merry  between  blackened  lips,  "  you  wouldn't 
turn  a  chap  off!  I'm  done  and  double-done.  I  been 
knocked  out,  with  the  sun  and  all.  .  .  .  See  here  now, 
Give  me  the  worth  o'  that." 

"  I  give  you  nothing.  I  don'  like  your  looks.  Why, 
even  in  my  back  room,"  puffed  Zimballo,  "  the  half- 
castes  and  orang  sirani,  they  come  here  as  saintlemen 
only!" 

He  loomed  indignant  under  the  glow  of  his  fine  oil 
lamps,  just  lighted  against  the  dusk,  in  his  fine  main 
shed  which  it  was  the  sentimental  care  of  his  life  to 
run  as  close  as  might  be  on  the  model  of  a  Levantine 
waterside  dive. 

There  is  a  breed,  or  a  type,  whose  destiny  is  to 
go  about  the  world  purveying  garlic,  cheap  food,  in 
famous  wines,  and  more  or  less  flea-infested  hospitality 
in  all  manner  of  queer  corners,  by  ice-bound  bay  or 
coral  strand.  So  they  did  in  the  time  of  the  Phoeni 
cians,  and  so  they  still  do,  and  that  part  is  right 


AMOK  315 

enough.  No  one  could  have  found  fault  with  Zim- 
ballo's  zinc  bar,  nor  his  highboy  stacked  to  the  ceiling 
with  multicolored  bottles,  nor  his  tattered  billiard 
table,  nor  his  battered  metal  furniture.  The  flaring, 
red  cotton  covers,  the  gilt  mirrors,  and  the  crude  prints 
of  obscure  royalties;  the  blue-glass  siphons  and  the 
pinky  lace  curtains:  these  he  had  found  some  heroic 
means  of  transplanting,  like  the  fixtures  of  a  faith. 

Meanwhile  the  East  is  the  East  and  a  good  deal  of 
a  fixture  itself,  and  behind  his  drawn  jalousies  and  his 
masking  vines  Zimballo  served  the  local  devil  quite 
successfully. 

Not  the  red  and  lusty  wickedness  of  other  climes, 
but  a  languid  sort,  thriving  in  a  reek  of  musk  and  raw 
Chinese  apple  blossom,  of  stale  cooking  and  incense 
and  stifled  rooms  and  poisonous  sweet  champagne,  as 
dreary  as  the  click  of  fan-tan  cash  and  the  drag  of 
silks  and  the  voices  of  a  cheeping  bird  cage  that  cir 
culated  through  the  secret  mazes  of  the  establishment 
day  and  night.  An  unsmiling  devil  —  in  the  flesh  and 
on  the  spot  very  well  represented  you  would  have  said, 
by  one  of  the  billiard  players,  a  tall,  yellow,  corpsy 
individual  who  had  remarked  the  stir  of  Merry's  arrival 
and  who  now  lounged  about  the  table. 

"  What's  the  row,  Zimballo  ?  "  he  drawled.  "  Let's 
have  a  share  if  there's  any  fun  going.  My  word  —  is 
that  a  friend  of  yours  ?  " 

"  No  friend  —  Cap'n  Silva,  sir !  "  protested  the  hotel 
keeper,  rubbing  his  hands  in  a  fluster.  It  annoyed  him 
vehemently  that  he  had  not  banished  this  disreputable 
stranger  at  sight.  "  Ope  to  die,  sir  —  I  never  se  'im 
before!" 

Other  guests  had  begun  to  gather  at  the  promise  of 
diversion:  a  bat-eared  clerk  from  the  Consulate  of 
fice,  a  broken  engineer,  a  benzoin  trader  looking  pro 
fessionally  neat  and  antiseptic,  and  two  or  three  loaf 
ers  looking  considerably  less  so  —  but  all  entire  gen- 


316       WHERE   THE    PAVEMENT   ENDS 
tlemen,  unpatched,  and  all  expectant  of  Silva's  lead  and 
grateful  for  it. 

"  Well,  well.  A  new  specimen,  then."  The  captain 
was  pleased  to  assume  a  scientific  interest  as  he 
propped  himself  on  his  cue  and  waved  aside  a  wreath 
of  cigarette  smoke.  "  And  a  blasted  poor  specimen  at 
that,  I'd  say.  .  .  .  Now  which  tribe  would  you  take 
him  to  be,  just  as  he  stands?" 

Captain  Silva  had  a  reputation  of  the  kind  invalu 
able  to  a  humorist;  it  assured  him  an  audience.  Also, 
he  had  that  rare  immunity  in  tropic  heats  which  makes 
any  man  formidable,  and  even  sinister.  An  Anglo- 
Portuguese  strain  was  supposed  to  account  for  him 
—  for  his  color,  for  his  superior  air,  and  for  various 
ventures  of  his  not  easy  to  define  since  piracy  went  out 
of  date.  Perhaps  it  did.  But  the  gleam  in  his  eye, 
a  certain  evil  quickening  with  which  he  studied  the 
unfortunate  Merry,  might  have  argued  a  darker 
origin. 

"  By  God !  A  specimen  for  true !  "  he  breathed,  in 
credulous.  "  Zimballo,"  he  added  in  his  drawl,  slow 
and  acid,  "  you're  getting  infernally  damned  careless. 
Since  when  has  this  front  room  been  free  to  any  greasy 
lascar  that  comes  along?" 

The  fat  man  went  a  rich  shade  of  magenta. 

"  I  can'  help  if  he  shoves  in  on  me !  'Ow  can  I 
help?" 

"  He  wouldn't  shove  in  by  chance  —  on  his  nerve." 

"Tha's  it!  Tha's  jus'  what  he  done,  sir.  Nerve! 
He  come  after  drink,  and  you  know  what  he  brings 
along  with  him  —  to  buy  off  me  ?  Eh  —  what  ?  "  Zim 
ballo  blew  out  his  wrath.  "  Twenty-five  Batavia  cents ! 
.  .  .  Besides  a  lid'l  fool  parrot  to  do  juggle-trick 
work ! " 

"Drink?  Ah-ha.  Likely  enough  too.  .  .  .  But 
how  does  he  manage  to  call  for  'em?  Can  he  talk  any 
thing  human,  at  least?" 


AMOK  317 

And  here,  having  confirmed  his  perception  of  the 
victim,  Silva  drove  home  the  attack. 

"  Hey,  you  fella  yonder.  Bugis,  Sula  man,  sea 
gypsy  —  whichever's  your  misbegotten  stripe  —  sup 
pose  you  speak'um.  What  pidgin  belong  you? 
Where  you  hail  from,  anyway?  " 

Mr.  Merry  stood  there  before  them,  dazed  and  help 
less.  In  one  hand  he  held  his  rejected  coin;  in  the 
other  the  lorikeet's  cage  and  a  few  trifles  wrapped 
with  a  kerchief.  He  knew  what  these  people  meant. 
He  was  not  so  far  gone  as  to  miss  what  mockery  was 
being  put  upon  him  in  savage  contempt,  and  how  it 
measured  the  distance  he  had  traveled  and  the  depth 
to  which  he  had  sunk.  But  his  head  was  humming  like 
a  pressure  gauge,  and  his  body  was  banked  with  un 
slaked  clinkers,  and  he  made  his  effort  as  best  he  could. 

"  Friends,"  he  said,  swaying  on  his  feet.  "  I  don't 
—  I  don't  mind  if  somebody  kindly  will  set  me  up  to  a 
bracer.  I'm  passing  through  to  Amboyna;  dropped 
off  a  prau  up  the  coast  this  morning.  .  .  .  It's  true 
I  do  a  bit  with  sleight  o'  hand  to  pay  my  way,  but 
I  had  no  luck  this  trip  and  I  am  asking  .  .  .  Brandy. 
Arrack  or  sagueir,  if  you  say  so.  It's  —  it's  quite  a 
while  since  I  had  any.  I  —  I  want  it  pretty  bad." 

In  the  silence  Silva  softly  held  up  a  finger. 

"  You,"  he  noted  softly,  "  are  a  dirty  renegade ! " 

Above,  the  line  of  swinging  punkahs  fanned  the  thick 
air  with  regular  beat.  It  threw  a  constant  flicker  of 
shadow  over  the  guests.  Otherwise  they  showed  no 
change  of  expression.  They  leaned  against  the  tables 
and  mopped  their  faces  and  drank  and  looked  on.  The 
way  many  men,  not  ingrained  with  cruelty  to  begin, 
have  learned  to  look  on  at  many  curious  things  in 
regions  where  that  particular  devil  does  business. 

"  Pity,"  suggested  the  engineer  after  a  time,  empty 
ing  his  glass  deliberatly  — "  a  pity  he  can't  pick  a 


318      WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

flask  or  two  out  that  bloomin'  hat  he's  wearin'.    'S  big 

enough." 

One  of  the  loafers  snickered. 

"  There's  the  river  waiting  for  him.  Full  of  drinks. 
And  he  could  wash  in  it  too." 

"  Turn  him  into  those  pigpens  at  the  rear,"  advised 
the  bat-eared  clerk.  "  Let  him  try  his  games  on  the 
mixed  lot  inside,  in  the  back  rooms." 

"  No,  sir,  you  won' ! "  Zimballo  entered  a  gusty 
veto.  "  That  sweep  ?  He  am'  fit  for  my  back  rooms 
neither ! " 

"  You're  right,"  said  Silva.  This  yellow  man  did 
no  mopping;  his  skin  had  the  gloss  of  a  salamander's, 
and  his  eyes  were  like  dusky  jewels.  A  humorist  in 
his  own  fashion  he  surely  was  —  and  his  speech  was 
tipped  with  malice  as  with  acrid  poison.  "  The 
blighter's  not  good  enough  for  half-castes,  even. 

"  What's  the  lowest  vermin  on  earth  ?  .  .  .  Why,  the 
white  who's  forgot  his  own  race.  It's  hard  enough  at 
best  —  isn't  it? — to  keep  yourself  topside  with  your 
right  authority  among  a  few  million  saddle-colored 
monkeys.  But  along  comes  a  rascal  like  that  and  lives 
on  the  folk:  acts  like  'em;  looks  like  'em;  drinks  like 
'em  —  by  God!  Then  where's  your  sanguinary  pres 
tige  gone  ?  " 

He  knew  how  to  stir  these  listless  exiles. 

"  I  tell  you,  when  a  blasted  tramp  goes  native  alto 
gether  he  needs  to  be  taught  what  white  men  think  of 
him,  and  where  he  belongs.  He's  a  pest  and  a 
danger.  .  .  I'd  like  to  see  him  and  every  other  like 
him  wiped  out  of  the  islands.  It's  a  common  duty  to 
suppress  the  whole  filthy  crew  of  'em ! " 

They  caught  some  of  his  energy  —  some  of  his  su 
perior  biting  viciousness  as  well.  Especially  the  loaf 
ers  were  roused  by  a  call  to  higher  things.  The  ben 
zoin  merchant,  betraying  a  habit  acquired  in  a  ruder 


AMOK  319 

society,  groped  vaguely  at  his  hip.  The  engineer 
sought  a  billiard  cue  that  balanced  better  to  his  fancy. 
Only  the  little  clerk  retained  official  scruples  and  tim 
idly  doubted  if  there  was  any  order  against  juggling, 
as  such. 

"  There's  an  order  against  vagrants,"  countered 
Silva. 

"  But,  after  all,  if  he  has  a  trade  of  his  own  — " 

"  Trade  be  damned  He  comes  begging  —  doesn't 
he?  And  if  you  want  to  bet  he's  not  a  fraud  besides  — " 

"  We  might  give  him  a  chance." 

"  It's  what  I  mean !  "  cried  Silva.  "  We'll  give  him 
a  chance,  for  true.  .  .  Look  here  — " 

He  turned  on  the  bewildered  Merry. 

"Look  here  —  you!  You  say  you've  had  no  luck? 
Well:  pray  for  it  now.  You  say  sleight  o'  hand  is 
your  line  ?  Well :  turn  out  a  sample  —  if  you  can : 
something  to  prove  you're  not  just  a  thieving  beg 
gar.  .  .  .  Observe!  Here  is  a  dollar.  I  lay  it  down 
to  your  silver  bit,  and  I  lay  you  the  odds  you've  no 
trick  worth  a  rotten  straw  —  not  one  but  I'll  catch 
you  out  and  show  you  up.  If  you  win,  you  get  your 
drinks.  If  you  lose  — !  .  .  .  I'm  telling  you!  Be 
careful!" 

Mr.  Merry's  first  care,  however,  was  to  be  seated. 
That  is  to  say,  he  put  himself  into  a  chair  at  an  iron- 
topped  table  because  it  happened  to  be  nearer  than  the 
floor. 

He  understood.  With  some  reserve  of  tortured  clear 
vision  he  did  understand  —  the  subtle  finish  to  Silva's 
jape:  playing  his  poor  claims  against  his  frantic  need 
—  the  last  refinement  of  humiliation ;  to  make  him  ex 
hibit  his  pitiful  arts  as  a  faker  and  a  trickster  of  brown 
natives  before  men  of  his  own  kind.  They  hitched 
closer  about  him.  They  were  highly  entertained,  lan 
guid,  avid,  and  vindictive ;  and  they  watched  him  with 


320       WHERE   THE    PAVEMENT   ENDS 

fish  eyes  from  faces  like  wet  leather  bags,  flabby  and 
pithless.  He  saw  them  through  the  blue  smoke  and 
the  heat  and  the  lamplight,  and  he  saw  that  in  fact  they 
were  his  own  kind.  He  had  fallen  rather  lower,  that 
was  all  and  they  had  dallied  with  the  local  devil  rather 
more  cautiously  —  they  could  still  pay  for  their  drinks. 
But  if  he  meant  to  share  with  them  he  would  have  to 
grovel.  There  was  no  help,  and  no  escape.  None. 
For  just  then,  with  diabolic  inspiration,  Silva  poured 
a  glass  of  sticky  yellow  liquor  and  put  it  out  of  his 
reach  where  the  drifting  scent  of  it  was  a  torment  of 
Tantalus.  .  .  . 

So  he  did  what  he  had  to  do :  untied  his  kerchief  and 
the  lorikeet's  little  cage  and  spread  out  his  few  cheap 
odds  and  ends  of  juggler's  stuff  —  to  try,  as  you  might 
say,  with  the  quickness  of  his  hand  to  deceive  the  eye 
of  his  fate. 

In  his  usual  program  he  counted  one  bit  of  conjur 
ing  which  had  earned  him  many  a  step  and  many  a  tot 
of  country  spirits  along  his  journey,  and  which  reason 
ably  he  could  trust.  He  used  on  occasion  to  take  up 
three  small  beans,  red  and  blue  and  black,  and  to  take 
the  lorikeet  on  the  same  thumb  ;and  with  magic  by-play 
he  made  to  feed  the  bird  three  beans  and  three  and 
three  again  and  so  on,  while  the  fluffy  green  mite  still 
plucked  them  from  his  finger  tips  and  chattered  in  a 
manner  absurdly  impudent  and  human.  ...  It  was 
an  easy  illusion.  It  had  worked  scores  of  times.  It 
began  to  work  this  time,  startling  the  watchers  with 
its  quick  and  graceful  turn  —  even  these.  It  ran  on. 
It  was  winning.  It  might  have  won  him  through :  but 
the  room  and  the  lights  were  spinning  about  the  luck 
less  magician  like  parts  in  a  gigantic  Catherine  wheel 
—  he  sagged  forward  on  the  table,  his  nimble  fingers 
faltered  —  slipped ;  and  quick  as  a  striking  snake,  Silva 
gripped  him. 


AMOK  321 

"  Ah-ha!  What  did  I  say?  Even  at  his  own  game 
—  this  liar  —  this  dirty  tramp !  " 

The  nature  of  the  man  loosed  itself  in  a  sudden,  an 
insensate  spurt  of  fury,  the  complement  of  its  accus 
tomed  dark  restraint.  He  swept  the  poor  rubbish 
from  the  table.  He  snatched  up  the  lorikeet  and  flung 
it  down  and  as  the  tiny  thing  flapped  and  screamed, 
broken-winged,  stamped  it  underfoot.  He  whirled 
Merry  around  by  the  elbows,  so  that  all  should  have 
an  equal  shot  at  him  with  fist  or  toe  or  billiard  cue. 

"This  outcast!"  he  cried  joyously.  "What  are 
we  going  to  do  with  him?  " 

"  Throw  him  out ! "  came  the  chorus.  "  ^Throw  him 
out!"  .  .  . 

Of  the  next  succeeding  interval  in  Mr.  Merry's  pil 
grimage,  and  his  particular  progress  that  night,  some 
slight  record  afterward  survived  for  a  while.  Not  of 
ficially,  of  course.  The  witnesses  were  certain  name 
less  and  unnamable  residents  of  Zimballo's  whose  pres 
ence  in  the  colonial  court  would  hardly  have  looked 
well,  and  throughout  the  subsequent  perfunctory  in 
quiry  they  were  very  justly  held  to  be  incompetent,  ir 
relevant,  and  improper  persons,  and  they  were  never 
questioned  —  in  fact,  their  existence  was  even  denied. 
But  they  knew  something  of  Merry. 

They  knew  how  he  was  hunted  all  about  that  rabbit 
warren,  in  and  out,  by  passages  and  traps  and  holes  in 
the  wall,  upstairs  and  down.  They  knew  how  he 
sought  refuge  through  filth  and  dust  and  blows  with 
the  blind  cunning  of  a  harried  and  flank-torn  cur.  How 
he  got  away  at  some  turn.  How  he  dragged  himself  to 
some  innermost  recess  of  the  place  before  he  collapsed. 
How  he  was  found  there  at  last,  and  how  he  found  him 
self,  in  a  sense  —  though  exactly  why  or  by  what  dis 
pensation  these  matters  came  to  pass,  naturally  the 
said  witness  never  had  any  very  clear  idea. 


322      WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

They  had  few  ideas  about  anything,  beyond  their 
daily  plaint  against  God,  man,  the  cook,  and  the 
weather  —  which  was  undeniably  an  ample  source  at 
that,  you  may  say.  They  kept  the  story  only  as  long 
as  it  was  new,  like  a  scrap  of  ribbon,  or  a  painted 
bangle  or  any  other  trifle  which  circulates  in  common 
currency,  soon  to  become  faded,  lost  and  forgotten. 
But  while-it  lasted  their  tale  was  precise  enough,  and 
it  certainly  established  beyond  doubt  that  the  girl  with 
the  pink  wristbands  was  the  first  thing  Merry  saw 
when  he  opened  his  eyes  again,  when  he  filtered  back 
toward  consciousness  with  his  head  on  her  knee  and 
her  quick,  cool  hands  nursing  him.  .  .  . 

"  More ! "  was  Mr.  Merry's  greeting. 

She  set  down  the  empty  cup. 

"  We  got  no  more,"  she  said. 

To  him  she  must  have  seemed,  she  could  have 
seemed,  at  first  only  a  figment  of  dreams.  She  crouched 
by  the  pallet  to  which  she  had  dragged  him.  The  room 
was  darkened;  a  candle  struggled  fitfully  somewhere 
with  the  rays  of  moonshine  that  came  by  the  wide 
window.  The  light  just  sufficed  to  show  her  small, 
pinched  face,  of  a  deathly  pallidity  under  its  coil  of 
heavy,  dead  hair,  and  her  thin  arms  and  figure  loosely 
covered  by  her  loose-sleeved  wrapper.  It  sufficed  for 
him  to  recognize  her,  as  men,  without  start  or  sur 
prise,  absolutely  and  infallibly  do  recognize  and  col 
logue  with  the  creatures  of  their  delirium. 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  you,"  he  said  simply. 

"  You've  been  a  long  time  about  it,"  she  answered, 
with  the  same  simplicity.  .  .  . 

In  truth,  life  and  all  issues  had  been  pretty  well 
simplified  and  fused  down  for  both  these  people:  for 
Merry,  who  was  as  nearly  as  possible  incandescent, 
and  for  the  woman,  who  was  merely  burned  out. 

"I  looked   everywhere,"   he  affirmed,   in   childlike 


AMOK  323 

earnestness.  "  I  looked  at  Samarang.  I  looked  at  Ba- 
tavia.  I  looked  at  Palembang.  That's  a  mean  sort 
of  place,  don't  you  think?  .  .  .  Did  you  go  to  Palem 
bang?" 

"  No,"  said  the  girl  with  the  pink  wristbands. 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  missed  you." 

"  You  missed  me,  all  right.  You  missed  me  at  the 
start  —  at  Singapore.  That  was  the  time  to  find  me." 

He  drew  his  breath  as  if  in  his  sleep  she  had  prodded 
some  old  wound,  and  the  dent  between  his  brows  deep 
ened. 

"  I  did  look  for  you  at  Singapore." 

"  You  looked  too  late,"  said  the  girl  with  the  pink 
wristbands. 

"  I  went  to  the  Jalan  Sultan,"  he  pleaded.  "  You 
lived  in  a  house  in  the  Jalan  Sultan,  at  Singapore. 
It  was  there  I  met  you.  .  .  .  But  when  I  went  back 
to  fetch  you  —  you  were  gone !  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said  dully.  "  I  was  gone.  .  .  .  They 
heard  you  promise  to  take  me  away.  The  captain  — 
he  said  you  wouldn't  come  back.  He  said  you  wouldn't 
dare  —  too  likely  to  get  your  throat  cut  if  you  tried 
it.  He  said  his  people  had  scared  you  good.  And 
you  didn't  come  back  that  night." 

"  No."  His  stare  was  fixed  and  waking.  "  No.  I 
didn't  come  back  that  night." 

"  The  captain  said  you  were  scared.  I  didn't  know. 
But  I  sat  up  waiting  like  we  had  planned  —  you  and 
me.  I  was  waiting  and  waiting.  And  you  didn't 
come.  Why?  —  ?"  Her  flat  voice  slipped  a  note. 
"Why  —  why  —  why  didn't  you  come  that  night? 
Were  you  scared  ?  " 

"  I  was  drunk,"  he  said.    "  God  forgive  me !  " 

Such  tones  a  man  may  use  when  his  naked  soul  is 
hauled  out  of  him  and  stood  up  for  judgment. 

"  It  doesn't  matter."     She   sank  back   again.     "  I 


324       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT    ENDS 
wanted  to   get  away   then.  .  .  .  Afterward    I    didn't 

care." 

The  drink  was  taking  hold  of  him,  bracing  him  each 
instant  nearer  to  an  actual  comprehension. 

"  Why  didn't  you  care?  "  he  demanded. 

She  pulled  back  the  pink  silk  bands  from  her  wrist 
and  held  them  before  him. 

"  That's  one  reason." 

The  man  drew  himself  convulsively  to  his  knees. 

"  Who  did  it?    Who  did  that?  " 

"  Silva.    The  captain  —  don't  you  know  ?  " 

"Silva?" 

"They  call  him  Captain  Silva.  He  isn't  really. 
He's  a  half-caste  himself,  only  he  pretends  —  and  he 
scares  everybody  so.  It  was  him  brought  me  here. 
He's  going  to  sell  me  to  Zimballo." 

"Zimballo!" 

She  nodded.  "  I  suppose  he'll  sell  me.  I'm  not 
worth  much  as  a  nina  de  salon,  but  I'm  pretty  tough. 
I've  lasted  —  you  see.  .  .  .  And  —  he  says  it's  all  I'm 
fit  for." 

Mr.  Merry  made  never  a  sound. 

For  finally,  with  his  wandering  ended  and  with  all 
questions  of  human  chemistry  and  racial  difference 
aside  —  finally  this  white  man  had  reached  the  stage 
which  had  been  so  fully  defined  for  him  one  steamy  hot 
day  by  a  Dutch  navigator  at  Palembang.  He  had 
gambled  away  his  last  cent.  He  had  been  reduced  to 
a  wreck.  His  woman,  in  the  laconic  phrase  — "  his 
woman  had  gone  bad  on  him."  He  had  no  more  use 
for  anything  he  could  lay  to  mind.  He  was  decidedly 
sorry  with  the  world.  And  he  was  utterly  ready  to  die 
with  a  big  smash.  .  .  . 

So  Mr.  Merry  went  amok,  in  the  exact  meaning  of 
that  word. 

They  were  aware  of  him  the  moment  he  entered  the 


AMOK  325 

main  shed.  They  saw  him,  and  they  started  at  him 
with  a  yell. 

He  was  the  same  man  they  chased  and  worried  — 
that  helpless  and  harmless  outcast  —  just  before. 
But  so  it  is  with  all  such  outcasts:  always  helpless 
and  harmless  —  just  before.  Heaven  had  fashioned 
Mr.  Merry  in  one  image,  but  the  climatic  devil  had  fin 
ished  him  in  quite  another.  Most  of  his  few  rags  had 
been  torn  from  him,  he  was  swathed  about  the  middle 
with  a  Malay  sarong,  and  his  lean  body  was  scored 
and  pulped  with  blows.  But  his  face  was  mottled  and 
bluish  now,  with  a  fleck  of  foam  in  his  beard.  And 
when  he  came  in  among  them  he  neither  paused  nor 
turned  aside. 

He  made  one  jump  to  Zimballo's  zinc  bar.  He 
made  one  leap  to  the  highboy,  Zimballo's  high  altar. 
He  swept  into  his  arms  half  a  dozen  of  multicolored 
bottles,  and,  looming  there  above  them  from  the  top  of 
the  bar  —  up  among  the  lights  and  the  swaying  punk 
ahs  —  he  began  to  launch  those  juggling  missiles  right 
and  left,  with  the  utmost  speed  and  precision.  .  .  . 

The  first  one  caught  Zimballo  full  in  the  chest  and 
knocked  him  back  against  the  wall  with  the  shock  of  a 
battering  ram.  Another  crashed  just  over  his  head  as 
he  sank  to  the  floor.  The  engineer  was  sprawling  at 
the  billiard  table  when  a  third  exploded  like  a  shell 
fairly  in  front  and  deluged  him  a  flood  of  sticky 
liquor.  The  loafers  and  the  clerk  turned  to  run.  But 
Merry  dealt  with  them  —  and  with  retribution. 

He  was  doing  the  thing  he  best  knew  how  to  do,  by 
virtue  of  the  odd  knack  of  his  fingers  —  and  this  time 
he  made  no  mistakes. 

He  emptied  a  shelf,  and  the  next,  and  the  bottles 
still  flew  from  him,  streaking  through  space,  smashing 
among  the  enemy. 

Most  of  them  made  a  miserable  escape  one  way  or 
another  and  fled,  carrying  a  voice  of  panic  that  cleared 


326       WHERE   THE   PAVEMENT   ENDS 

out  the  establishment  from  end  to  end  front  and  rear. 
But  not  Silva.  Not  the  yellow-faced  captain,  who 
came  back  from  the  back  of  the  room  and  charged  with 
uplifted  cue,  snarling  —  who  was  met  halfway: 
stopped,  overwhelmed  and  crushed  in  his  tracks  as  by 
a  hail  of  thunderbolts.  .  .  . 

When  Mr.  Merry  led  the  girl  out  they  had  to  cling 
for  a  time  to  each  other  and  to  the  handrail  that  led 
down  toward  the  landing. 

All  about  them  were  the  walls  of  the  night,  the  dark, 
blank  walls  of  land  and  sky  and  their  prison.  But 
outward  lay  a  great  silvered  streak.  To  seaward  they 
could  gaze  down  a  dim  vista  of  rocky  and  deserted 
islets  where  the  moon  showed  like  an  open  silver  gate 
way,  like  a  wide,  bright  door  to  the  uncharted  spaces 
beyond  —  far  beyond,  as  Merry's  gesture  showed  her. 

Of  that  consummation  a  whisper  was  caught,  it 
seems,  through  the  masking  vines  overhead :  a  last 
glimpse  of  them  as  they  reeled  there  together  on  the 
brink. 

"  And  you  wasn't  —  you  wasn't  scared  this  time !  " 
she  gasped.  "  You  ain't  —  you  ain't  scared  now  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said.  "  That  is  where  we  are  going  — 
out  yonder.  .  .  .  I've  a  little  prau  canoe  down  here 
at  the  steps  —  if  we  can  reach  it.  .  .  It's  where  we  be 
long,  and  our  one  chance.  Over  the  curve  of  the  earth 
—  among  the  islands  of  the  shallow  sea.  Where  no 
one  ever  does  go  and  nobody  can  follow." 

"  There's  nothing  much  to  eat.  Nor  drink,  neither," 
she  added  quite  practically.  "  We  will  die." 

"What  does  that  matter?  .  .  .  But  a  native  might 
pull  through,  in  the  native  way.  And  if  it  might  hap 
pen  to  a  native,  it  might  happen  to  us.  ...  Come ! " 

They  went. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 

UCOLUBi 
Feb2370 


Book  Slip-25»i-9,'60(.B2'93684)4280 


UCLA-College  Library 

PS  3535  R91w 


A    001  299461 


